


Lesson Plans

by dustofwarfare, ohmyfae



Series: Imperative [10]
Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: BDSM AU, Background Relationships, D/s-verse, Dedue Molinaro/Ashe Ubert/Dimitri Blaiddyd, Felix Fraldarius/Claude von Riegan, M!Byleth/Jertiza, M/M, Pre-Time Skip, Spanking, Stern dom Seteth, Teacher/Student, biological imperative kink, messy sub Sylvain Gautier
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-07
Updated: 2021-02-07
Packaged: 2021-03-12 21:01:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 20,198
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29266905
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dustofwarfare/pseuds/dustofwarfare, https://archiveofourown.org/users/ohmyfae/pseuds/ohmyfae
Summary: Something needs to be done about Sylvain Gautier.Sylvain steps in and makes his way toward Seteth’s desk. He stands there, fingers laced together and hands behind his head, and in a voice as insolent as his posture he says, “Yeah, what?”“Your behavior is not appropriate,” Seteth says, severely.(Stern dom Seteth tops messy sub Sylvain, that's the plot)
Relationships: Sylvain Jose Gautier/Seteth
Series: Imperative [10]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1654516
Comments: 19
Kudos: 87
Collections: DS-Verse FE3H Fics





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This fic is included in the Imperative series because it's D/s-verse, but it's a standalone and doesn't really fit in with any of the timelines. 
> 
> If you're new to the concept of biological kink, everyone is born naturally a sub or a dom and has the urge to indulge in those tendencies. It's not meant to be a realistic portrayal of BDSM as practiced by real people -- this is all fantasy, written for funsies. Enjoy!

Something has to be done about Sylvain Gautier. 

Seteth’s history at Garreg Mach is long and varied. Some years he takes a more active role in teaching, and in others, he is content to serve as Rhea’s attendant and leave all the duties of the Academy to her and whoever comprises the monastery’s capable staff. 

He’s been doing a bit of both for the last few years; running things in an administrative capacity as well as lending his expertise in authority and polearms. And he would most certainly prefer to shatter an endless parade of practice lances sparring with the well-meaning -- but rather clumsily strong -- heir to the throne of Faerghus than attempt to curtail the nighttime comings and goings of students. Disciplining them for holding their lance incorrectly is not the same as asking why they are sneaking into the monastery at three in the morning, drunkenly stumbling over hedges and unaware there is a full moon to cast plenty of light on their shame. 

“Oh, oops, forgot that was there,” Sylvain whispers, or tries; Seteth’s hearing is sharper than most, but Sylvain is also trying to speak quietly in that way of drunks or old people, when they think they are speaking at a lower volume than they actually are. His arms go to his sides as he weaves dangerously from side-to-side, trying to keep himself from ending up face-first in the grass. 

At least he’s not near the pond. Seteth has fished as many students as loaches from its waters; he would not care to drag Gautier bodily by his hair from the depths. The pond is far deeper than it looks. And there are things that sometimes sleep beneath the gentle waves that are not quite ready to be woken. 

“Sylvain, a moment,” Seteth says, and watches with a sigh as Sylvain startles and nearly pitches over his own feet. Rather like a young wyvern just learning to walk, all gangly limbs and lacking in grace. He sighs. “There is no use pretending not to see me.” 

“Seteth!” Sylvain smiles at him, too bright in the moonlight. “Oh. Hi. I didn’t, uh. See you there. Out for a walk? Me, too.” 

“A walk home from the brewery,” Seteth says, pulling a face. 

“Oh, were you there? I didn’t see you.” 

Seteth resists the urge to rub his temples. “No, I was in the library. I meant _you_.” 

“Oohh.” Sylvain blinks copper-bright eyes at him, tilts his head like a curious Aegir hound and says, “how’d you know?” 

“Believe it or not, I recognize the smell of a pale ale when I smell it,” Seteth says. “And you can barely walk.” 

Sylvain’s smile widens, but his eyes are as glassy and dim. “Someone spilled some on me. It’s fine, don’t worry about it. Hey, am I in trouble or something? I _am_ the heir to House Gautier, you know.” 

Seteth stares at him. “I’m well aware of who you are, Sylvain. If you think I’ve forgotten, you’ve had far more ale than is wise.” 

“I definitely did that, yeah. But y’know, I -- seriously, am I in trouble?” There’s an edge to the question that Seteth notices immediately. It’s plainative, but it’s also almost _eager_ , as if he -- 

_As if he wants to be in trouble._

Ah, Sothis save him from tipsy, eager, bumbling submissives. “You are not,” Seteth says, and sees the flinch on Sylvain’s face, the brief flash of disappointment hidden once more in that wide, empty smile. “Because you are drunk. Take yourself to bed and don’t let me catch you sneaking in intoxicated past midnight again.” 

“Is it okay if I’m drunk _before_ midnight?” 

Seteth levels a stare at Sylvain. “No. Now, get to bed and if you are a _minute_ late for your class in the morning, I shall have Byleth let me know, and you _will_ be in trouble. You are too old to be treated like a misbehaving child. Or so I thought. Perhaps I am wrong.” 

Sylvain’s smile slips and for the first time, Seteth sees a hint of emotion seep through into his gaze, which meets Seteth’s for only a moment and then slides away like water. “Probably, yeah. People are wrong about me all the time.” He throws a two-finger salute and lopes off toward the dormitory stairs. He’s far more steady on his feet than earlier, which is somehow not a surprise. 

The desire to submit was bleeding off him, stronger than the scent of the ale. 

Seteth sighs and turns to go back to his chambers. Once, years ago now, there’d been an _arrangement_ of sorts for students to have certain needs met, deep below the school in the catacombs. It had not been his favorite use of the underground space, but it had resulted in fewer students seeking what they needed in the village. Now, however, with Rhea setting it aside for the Ashen Wolves….

Surely there are dominants in Sylvain’s house who would see to his needs? Blaiddyd’s no dominant, and even if he were, his unpredictable strength would be cause for concern. The Fraldarius heir has a major crest but is a submissive, though annoyed enough with his friend’s carousing, so it seems, that he might be willing to put in the effort. Not that would it work; Seteth has seen submissives like Sylvain Gautier before. They need discipline, a firm hand, and praise when they’ve earned it. Fraldarius’s temper is too raw for such a thing, and if he’s a blade, he’s still too soon from the fire to be of much use. 

There’s -- Mercedes, perhaps, though Seteth is all too aware of Sylvain’s feelings about the fairer sex to wish that on anyone. Dedue certainly has the temperament for it, but he rather seems to have his hands full with Blaiddyd. Galatea, Sylvain’s other childhood friend, could she be asked to see to him? Likely not. Sylvain is the type of submissive who needs a confident, experienced dominant to deal with him, and Ingrid has the potential, perhaps, but needs time to grow into it. 

Is there anyone else? Von Riegan? The Adrestian princess? Perhaps someone in their respective houses? No, that seems unfair. The Goddess knows they have enough to deal with. 

Perhaps he should speak to Rhea about this. Not that he necessarily wants to install a -- a _brothel_ in the monastery, but the headache that could be caused by Gautier running wild looking to be put on his knees is not one Seteth wishes to endure. 

There is always the hope that Gautier will behave himself from now on, and at the very least, fail to get himself caught when slinking home drunk. Though that seems a bit of a reach. 

Very well. Seteth will ask Byleth to handle him, if it becomes necessary. That’s his job now, isn’t it? Seteth will speak with him tomorrow, and wash his hands of this entirely. 

***   
Byleth is standing at the end of the dock, casting his line into the water and staring off into space, nodding to himself and making a little _hmm_ noise, like he’s agreeing with someone. Even though there is no one else there. 

“Good afternoon, Professor,” Seteth says. “A moment, if you would?” 

Byleth nods, and gently brings up the line. There’s a fish on the end. He blinks, looking almost confused, as if he’d not thought it was possible to actually _catch_ anything. He holds it up, tilts his head, then gently takes the fish and lets it go. 

They both watch it splash and disappear under the water. Byleth sighs. 

“Was Sylvain late today,” Seteth asks. “This morning. For class.” 

Byleth is a man of few words, Seteth’s realized, and it very often takes him some time to answer questions. He thinks, then says, “A few minutes. Five? Maybe less.” 

“But he _was_ late,” says Seteth. 

“Yes.” Byleth nods. “I guess he was.” 

Seteth sighs. “Was anyone else late?” 

“Oh.” Byleth thinks about it. “No. No one else.” 

Five minutes is, in the grand scheme of things, not that many minutes. Still. “Is he usually late?” 

“No. Not usually.” Byleth studies the water, a small frown between his brows. “This was the first time.” 

“I see,” says Seteth. Speaking with Byleth is always somewhat disconcerting, even if he’s not sure why. “Well. Thank you. Please let me know if he’s late again.” 

Perhaps letting it go, just this once, is all right. 

***  
“Hello.” 

Seteth looks up from his desk, sets his quill aside and takes in the sight of Professor Byleth standing patiently in his doorway. “Professor.” 

“You wanted me to let you know if Sylvain was late, again,” Byleth says. 

Seteth frowns, a bit disappointed. He hasn’t caught Sylvain sneaking back in to the monastery, but there have been...extenuating circumstances, following their altercation with Sylvain’s brother Miklan at Conand Tower. “I suppose there are reasons why Sylvain might be having difficulty getting back into his schedule. Perhaps we can forgive his tardiness, this once.” 

“Oh, he wasn’t late,” Byleth says.

Seteth stares at him. “I see. You came to tell me that he...wasn’t...late?” There are times he truly does wonder about Rhea’s reasons for wanting this strange man with his empty eyes here so badly. 

“I came to tell you that he’s missed class. For, hmm. Two? No. Three days.” 

Seteth closes his eyes, counts briefly to ten and then does it again in a language long dead. “You are telling me Sylvain missed classes three days in a row, and you’re only now telling me?” 

“You said I should tell you if he was _late_ ,” says Byleth. “Which is different than absent.” 

“And you don’t think,” says Seteth. “That I might want to know about absences as well as tardiness?” 

“I wasn’t sure,” says Byleth. “You hadn’t explained why you wanted me to tell you about the tardiness. So.” 

Byleth stares at him, limpid eyes calm like spring rain. There is something familiar there that Seteth can’t quite place. 

Seteth inclines his head. “I’ll speak with him. In the future, Professor, please, yes, do tell me if your students are missing classes without an excuse. I shall speak to Sylvain.” 

“All right.” Byleth turns, then stops at the door. “I think he might be, hmm. Unwell.” 

Seteth remembers the story of Sylvain’s brother, how he’d transformed into something unholy and beastly while trying to wield the Lance of Ruin without a Crest. This man, who -- if the rumors were true -- tried to kill Sylvain when he was younger, more than once. What that must be like, for Sylvain, to see his childhood tormenter become a literal monster right before his eyes. 

“Yes,” Seteth says, softly. “I think you might be right. Thank you, Professor. As I said. I’ll speak with him.” 

***

“The Professor said you wanted to see me?” Sylvain appears in his doorway, leaning insolently against the frame. 

“Yes,” Seteth says, voice short. “About three hours ago.” 

Sylvain shrugs, his smile tight. His eyes are flat and dull like a tarnished coin, his shoulders tense. “I was busy.” 

“Busy? Catching up on the work you missed, I hope,” says Seteth. He stands up, places his hands on the desk. “Come in, please.” 

Sylvain doesn’t move. 

Seteth sighs. He doesn’t often _need_ to use his natural dominance, and he’s well-aware that Sylvain is _waiting_ for it, but he goes ahead and uses it anyway. “Sylvain. Come _in_ here.” 

There’s a flash of something on Sylvain’s face, perhaps the first emotion Seteth has seen since the Blue Lions returned from Conand Tower. Sylvain steps in and makes his way toward Seteth’s desk. He stands there, fingers laced together and hands behind his head, and in a voice as insolent as his posture he says, “Yeah, what?” 

“Your behavior is not appropriate,” Seteth says, severely. 

Sylvain laughs. “You know, it’s funny you should say that. I realized the other day, hey, I’m the heir to House Gautier! I don’t actually have to be here, if I don’t want to.” 

“That is entirely true,” Seteth says. “No one is forcing you to stay.” 

“Ha, right,” Sylvain mutters. He drops his hands from behind his head, and then, with a glancing, challenging smile, he reaches out and messes up the papers on Seteth’s desk. “So, what are you doing in here, anyway? Sending notes to our parents?”

“Sometimes, yes,” Seteth says, watching but not making a move to stop Sylvain. 

“Do you send any to mine?” He reaches for the quill. 

Seteth, without thinking, smacks his hand. “Keep your hands to yourself, have you no manners?” 

“A few.” Sylvain’s eyes are bright, his face flushed. “Hey, are we done, here? If you’re not going to send me home or tell my parents on me, I could really use a night on the town.” 

“What precisely are you trying to accomplish, Sylvain?” Seteth watches the way Sylvain messes with the papers, trying to go for the quill again, so obvious and his need bleeding off him like an open wound. 

“Kinda thought it was obvious,” Sylvain says. “You’re a dom. I’m a sub. Hey, I might not be great at manners but I’m really good at sucking cock. You want to find out?” 

Seteth has been alive for centuries. He is no stranger to inappropriate advances or sexual talk; he can say _suck my cock_ in languages no one even remembers existing. Sylvain Gautier, with his messy hair and over-bright eyes, his ridiculous attempts at -- is this _seduction_ , oh, by Sothis, it _is_ \-- is not a new, unknown creature presenting himself and practically begging to be put on his knees. 

“You cannot think,” Seteth says, slowly and with so much dominance that Sylvain’s eyes lower to the floor, “that this sort of, of slapdash attempt at _goading_ me into dominating you will work? I thought you were much more intelligent than that, but perhaps I was mistaken.” 

“You probably were, yeah,” Sylvain says, agreeably. He rakes a hand through his messy hair. “It’s fine. Just an offer, don’t get all worked up about it. There’s a girl in the village, she’s got a nice body and is a good touch with the whip. I’ll go and see her, if you’re not into it. She’s probably hoping she’ll end up pregnant, Crest baby and all that, but you know. Guess it’s better than being _inappropriate_.” 

Sylvain is hurting. It’s obvious, and the need to be taken in hand is pouring off him, so potent that Seteth’s senses feel primed and on-edge like they do before battle. Sylvain was tormented by a dispossessed older brother, and his odious family has somehow made him believe his only worth is in his blood, the potential for it to carry a Crest to another generation. 

_I knew your forebearer, Sylvain. He was just about as eager to put on his knees as you are._

“You will do nothing of the sort,” Seteth says, walking around his desk. He reaches out and taps Sylvain on the wrist, lightly, with two fingers. “Put that down.” 

Sylvain, who’s been clinging to his papers like a lifeline, drops them immediately. 

“You will listen to me,” Seteth says, and ah, there, he has Gautier’s full attention. Good. “I have work to finish. If you are so eager to be put in your place, you will kneel by my desk and allow me to complete it.” 

Sylvain goes to his knees so fast, it’s almost dizzying. His breath escapes in a long, drawn-out whine. “Fuck, thank you.” 

“Hush,” Seteth says, and finds a fresh quill in his desk drawer. He takes the other and taps it on the side of Sylvain’s cheek. “Put your hands behind your back -- good gracious, Gautier, has no one taught you any proper submissive protocol? Your family always has treated submission like it is a weakness. I suppose I’ll have to teach you this, as well. Hands behind your back, clasped at the -- yes, there, that’s well done, good.” 

The praise, even that small bit of it, makes Sylvain suck in a sharp breath. Seteth has no doubt his cock is hard as a rock between his legs. He tugs on Sylvain’s hair. “Now. Straighten your shoulders. The Goddess did not make you submissive for you to dishonor it by slouching. Show some pride in what you are. No proper dominant will wish to attend to a lazy submissive who doesn’t know how to kneel, and who acts like such a _brat_ to get what he needs.” He takes Sylviain’s chin in his fingers and forces Sylvain to meet his gaze. “Do you at least understand that you were misbehaving earlier?” 

“I, ah,” says Sylvain, kneeling there, blinking up at him with wide, blurry eyes. He’s breathing too fast. “Yes?” 

“You don’t sound very certain of that.” Seteth takes the quill and then gives Sylvain a sharp little pat on the side of his face. “Open up.” 

Sylvain does it, and Seteth places the quill between his teeth. “Close your mouth. There. Good. Kneel, _quietly_ , while I finish my work. Show me you can be somewhat well-behaved.” 

He takes up his fresh quill, sits back in his chair, and glances over at Sylvain. “You think submission is a thing to play at, to demand, and that’s because you’ve never been properly dominated, have you? It’s not about getting what you want. It’s about getting what you _need_ , and that’s what you don’t understand.” Seteth settles in and goes back to his work. 

He can feel when Sylvain starts to fidget, and it takes very little time. He reaches over without looking and grabs Sylvain by the back of the neck, shaking him like Sylvain is an errant kitten or an unruly baby wyvern. “Settle down. You wanted to be put on your knees, now you have been. Be still. The longer it takes me to do my work, the longer you’ll have to kneel. Submit and stop _fighting_ , Sylvain, you might find you enjoy it.” 

Seteth spares Sylvain a brief glance, nods in satisfaction, then goes back to his paperwork.


	2. Chapter 2

Sylvain may die here.

There’s a good chance, he thinks, as he kneels next to Seteth’s desk and listens to the scrape of a quill over parchment, that the line of Gautier will end tonight. Sylvain’s chest has gone tight at the touch of a firm hand on his neck, and his arms are tingling pleasantly from being held behind his muscular back—too big, possibly, for proper form, why did no one warn him, he should have tried to be lean and compact like Felix, who can drop to his knees like a good submissive if someone smacks him around long enough.

Felix always has been better at form. Better at footwork, too, and swordplay, studious and dutiful in a way that would make him snarl in outrage if Sylvain were to bring it up.

Dimitri would get it, probably. He’s always sighing lately, and Sylvain caught him going to his knees while Dedue was in the greenhouse the other day, leaning just enough to rest his head on Dedue’s thigh.

Nice thighs, though. 

Sylvain tries to glance at Seteth without turning his head. He’s still going at it, even though Sylvain is _right here_ , practically begging to be bent over the desk and railed within an inch of his life. Dying of blood loss as it all goes right to his poor, neglected dick.

Wouldn’t that be something. The last Gautier, lost forever, defeated by a few stern words and a clasp of the neck.

Goddess, but Sylvain wants Seteth’s hands on him again.

It isn’t like he hasn’t submitted before. He _has_. That girl back in the village, she smacked him a few times, right? And sure, he maybe had to keep asking for it, because hitting the heir of house Gautier is enough to make anyone pause, but that’s just how it is.

Something flickers out of the corner of his eye, and fuck, Seteth is moving, _finally_ , no one has _that_ much to do at this hour—

Seteth presses two fingers to the hollow of Sylvain’s throat, pushes him back on his knees a little, and retreats.

Sylvain’s face burns. Was he leaning? When was he leaning? What did Felix used to do when his dad found out he was a submissive, didn’t he use books on his head for balance? Sylvain distinctly remembers knocking the books off Felix’s head while he was kneeling for lessons and getting dunked in the pond for it. Maybe he should try books.

No.

Why does he need to try _books_ when he can just go to the village and ask sweet old Lettie for the strap?

This is Seteth, he thinks. He’s doing this on purpose. Making Sylvain think of… studying, studying to be a _submissive_ , as though that’s a thing you study for.

Which sure, in house Fraldarius, maybe it is.

Seteth sighs, and there’s a faint scrape of wood on the polished floor. Sylvain tries to sit up a little straighter, breathes through his nose, wills his cock to stop aching like Seteth has done anything other than make him kneel like a disgraced apprentice.

“There,” Seteth says, walking around the desk to stand over him. Sylvain has to force himself not to look up, to see if he wants him, if he’s... proud of him. For _kneeling_. “Only a few minutes late. Let’s take a look at you, Gautier.”

Oh. Right, Sylvain knows how _this_ works. He raises his hands to the buttons of his uniform, and stops as Seteth grabs him by the hair, pulls just enough for Sylvain to want to go slack and willing, head tilted up. He looks at Seteth, tries to figure out where he went wrong, what this _means_. Most people would have brought out the flogger by now, called him names, let him revel in it.

“Hands behind your back,” Seteth says. “A good submissive doesn’t anticipate orders. I expect you were taught the opposite.”

He wasn’t taught at _all_ , but Sylvain tries to nod, anyways. He glances at the front of Seteth’s trousers, but he can’t tell if he’s hard or not. If this is doing anything for him. Shouldn’t it? Paperwork probably _does_ get him hard—

Seteth snaps his fingers, and Sylvain’s gaze flicks to his hand.

“Well, at least you’re a quick study,” Seteth says, and fuck, Sylvain’s hands clench behind his back as Seteth tugs at his hair again, just enough. “Open.” 

He takes the quill from between Sylvain’s teeth and slides it along Sylvain’s cheek before setting it aside.

“Yes, good,” Seteth says, and Sylvain doesn’t know what he means until Seteth’s fingers press down on Sylvain’s lower lip. He didn’t even realize he’d kept his mouth open until now. “Have patience, and you’ll get what you need. Not just momentary pleasure, or the sting of a reward for acting out.” He slides a finger in Sylvain’s mouth, over his tongue. “Just take it, Gautier. No showing off.”

_Fuck_. Sylvain trembles with the need to suck on his fingers, to curl his tongue, show him what he could be doing with his cock right now, but Sylvain just lets his mouth hang open as Seteth adds another finger. He’s fucking his mouth, slow and deliberate, and Sylvain whines around his fingers as Seteth pulls at his hair with his other hand.

Sylvain is struggling not to rock forward on his knees by the time Seteth has three fingers in his mouth, and he makes a ragged, helpless sound as Seteth places a foot on his thigh, holding him down.

“Please,” Sylvain tries to say around his fingers. “You _bastard_.” But it comes out an unintelligible mess, and Sylvain can feel his focus narrow to Seteth’s fingers, his grip on his hair, and the rest of the world goes hazy and indistinct.

When Seteth finally draws away, wiping his fingers dry on Sylvain’s cheek, Sylvain is gasping for it.

“Please,” he says, and fuck, he can’t even muster a proper smug, flirtatious look—It’s all need, desperate and raw.

Seteth almost smiles.

“No,” he says, and releases Sylvain with a jerk. “Have patience, Gautier. Don’t come until you can return to me, and then we’ll see.”

“What. When can I. So if I.” Sylvain glances at the door. “Turn around and come back…”

“Three days,” Seteth says. “If you can behave for three days—And that also means going to classes, on _time_ —without coming once, then you can return.”

“How will you know,” Sylvain asks, “if I don’t just. Go back and.”

“I’ll know,” Seteth says, and this time, he _is_ smiling. “Trust me.”

***

Sylvain makes it thirty minutes before he’s kneeling on his bedroom floor, dick in hand, trying to pull at his own hair as he breathes out harsh into the cool night air. In his mind, Seteth is behind him, watching, maybe he’s. Yeah, maybe he has a foot on his back, right, except he’s also flogging Sylvain so maybe he’s also. Maybe there are two Seteth’s, and.

_Can’t even manage an hour_ , the not-Seteths say, and Sylvain grins a little. As though Seteth could tell. Sylvain could come a hundred times between now and when he waltzes into Seteth’s office again, and there’s no way anyone can—

Sylvain stops, frozen in horror, as his addled brain takes a sharp left down a new avenue.

Surely he couldn’t _actually_ know. Doms have the voice, sometimes, depending on whatever innate magic strengthens their force of command, and subs probably have something. Great asses? Not Felix. Maybe something else. They can whine at a certain frequency, who the fuck knows. So maybe some doms _can_ tell if they’ve been obeyed or not. Maybe they can see it.

He stands up. Shoves on his pants. Mutters, “Dad fucked at least twice,” until the existential horror of existing brings him down enough not to broadcast how achingly desperate he is to the world at large, and pushes open the door.

He immediately strides down the hall and wrenches Felix’s bedroom door wide open. “I have a question.”

“Why are you _here_ ,” Felix says, from where he’s sprawled on his bed, a book in his hands. On any other night, Sylvain would be delighted to learn that Felix has garters attached to the edges of his uniform shirt _and_ his leggings, but he valiantly ignores that to close the door behind him.

“Felix,” he says. “We’re friends.”

“Goddess. I guess.”

“Right. So you can tell me. In that submissive charm school your dad made you go through—“

“Do I _look_ like I have charm,” Felix says, dryly.

“Hypothetically,” Sylvain says, rather than unpacking _that_. “But did you learn anything about, you know, what doms. Can or can’t do.”

Felix slowly closes his book. “Sylvain,” he says. “You’ve been fucking around with women for the past year and you’re just _now_ wondering what _consent_ is?”

Sylvain groans. “That’s not. I mean. Like. Their voice, like their voice. Anything like that.”

Felix stares at him. Sylvain knows that he’s well aware that Sylvain practically grew up wild. He remembers sitting with Felix in the yard years ago, when Sylvain’s father sent Miklan to get him, listening to Felix’s parents whisper to each other in the kitchen.

“We can’t just steal someone else’s child,” Felix’s mother hissed. 

“It’ll be hell on earth for him now that Gautier knows he’s a submissive,” Rodrigue had whispered back. “Why do you think he ran off, Belle?”

Felix had looked at Sylvain, then, sitting there on a block of stone in the garden with his cheek one giant bruise and his face pink with shame, and for once, hadn’t said anything. But he knew. They all knew, especially after Sylvain’s mother was turned out for providing not just a crestless dominant, but a crest-bearing submissive. Both useless in their own ways, with Sreng pushing at the border and the Lance of Ruin hanging heavy over the door.

So Felix got his books and his lessons, and Sylvain got a few hours with the training master before being set loose to roam the countryside, so long as he slunk in quietly and kept his head down around his brother and the margrave.

“Doms aren’t unicorns,” Felix says. “They can’t tell if you’re a virgin, or a submissive, or whatever, just by looking.”

“Yeah, but. You know what. I’m good,” Sylvain says. He backs up a step, and hits the door.

“Look, do you.” Felix pinches the bridge of his nose. “Do you have to. Talk about it.”

Sylvain grins. “Aw, Felix, you do care.”

“Never mind. Shut up. Get out of my room.”

Sylvain bows on the way out, and laughs at the thunk of a book hitting the door as it closes. Then he stands there a minute, staring at the empty hallway. 

A cat sidles up to him and pushes against his ankles. Sylvain picks it up.

Claude might know, but he’ll probably want something for it. Edelgard? No. Hubert’s probably at the door, waiting to eviscerate intruders. Not Mercie, either—She’s too… sympathetic. Sylvain’s not really prepared for that, not right now.

Sylvain carries the cat downstairs. It’s a tabby, one of the Riegan ones, fat as a sack of flour and content to knead Sylvain’s arm with its sharp little claws, and it blinks up at him as he carries it to Dedue’s door. He knocks with his elbow, and the cat purrs.

There’s a shuffling sound behind the door, a few faint thumps, and then Dedue is there, wearing just what looks like a cloak tied hastily around his frankly impressive thighs, bare chest gleaming in the moonlight.

“Sylvain,” he says.

Sylvain opens his mouth to ask.

“Oh,” says a hoarse, painfully familiar voice from behind Dedue, and a mop of silver hair appears from behind a lump on the bed. “Hey, Sylvain.”

Sylvain’s throat goes dry. “Hey, Ashe.”

Ashe beams. His hair is mussed and tangled, and so far as Sylvain can see, he isn’t wearing a shirt.

“Is there something you need,” Dedue asks.

“I. Uh. I thought you and Dimitri,” Sylvain says.

The lump on the bed shifts, and Sylvain squints and makes out what looks like—yes, that’s Dimitri with his wrists tied to the headboard. 

“I would appreciate your discretion in this,” Dedue says, as Ashe disappears behind the bed again. Sylvain blinks and looks back to Dedue.

“Sure,” he says. “I’m not one to judge. I was just. Here because. I found this,” he says, holding up the cat.

Now it’s Dedue’s turn to squint.

“And now that I’ve shown you,” Sylvain says, smiling just a little wildly. “I’m going to. Go and. Go and put it back.” He turns on one heel and starts off towards the stairs, the cat bobbing sedately in his arms. A flicker of dark hair flashes out of the corner of his eye. “Hello, Professor! Just returning this cat. Don’t mind me. Goodnight.”

He marches up the stairs without another word, walks quickly to his room, closes the door, and spills the purring tabby into his rug. The cat squeezes its eyes at him and cries, plaintively.

“Yeah,” Sylvain says, dropping to the floor with the cat, which immediately crawls into his lap. “Yeah. Me too, buddy.”

***  
“Brother, you’re awfully quiet this evening,” his daughter says, beaming at him across the table in his private quarters. 

Seteth sighs. When they’d decided to enact this -- he hates to call it a _lie_ , but that’s what it is, isn’t it? -- about Flayn being his sister, he’d told her it would be best if she got used to thinking and referring to him as “brother.” And so she does, with glee, as if she is thrilled at being involved in a clandestine deception. 

It isn’t necessary in private, but try telling Flayn that. 

“Merely a lot on my mind, Flayn,” he says, pushing at the grilled herring on his plate. 

“But that’s your favorite,” Flayn says, eyes wide. “Is there something inadequate about the dish? Perhaps it was not made correctly, did you know there is an _awful_ lot of steps to properly prepare the spices--” 

“It is fine, please,” Seteth says, and smiles at her. It is difficult to be cross around his charming, delightful daughter. “My mind is elsewhere. Do forgive me.” 

Flayn nods, and tells him about the things she is learning, the friends she’d made this year at the monastery. He wonders if he is doing her a disservice, asking her to act as if she is a young woman when she is -- well. Hardly as young as she purports to be. But it is hard not to look at her and see the little girl she once was, centuries ago. 

Flayn leaves after dinner, kissing him on the cheek and admonishing him to read a good book, or take some time for himself and not work so much. He does try; after a bath, he attempts to write a few new lines on the children’s story he’s been tinkering around with. But one has to be in a certain frame of mind to write children’s tales, and his -- 

Ah. It is not there. Not in the least. 

Seteth abandons his writing, lays on his bed, and wonders what he should do about Sylvain. It had seemed an easy choice, to make him kneel, force him to be _still_ , gentle some of that wildness that ran through him, like a young wyvern fighting the urge to submit to the saddle. 

This is putting Seteth in the wrong mindset, as now he is thinking far too clearly about _riding_ Sylvain, and that isn’t proper. It is one thing to use his dominance to settle a distressed student, it is quite another to use it to satiate his baser urges. 

But he is alone, and perhaps it isn’t terribly improper to indulge in a few fantasies. He’s thinking specifically of Sylvain on his knees, eyes wide, panting and saying _please_ so deliciously, under and desperate in a way that stripped all his posturing and left a raw, aching need that Seteth wanted so badly to satiate. 

Sylvain would have sucked his cock, and it makes him shiver as he thinks of it, how it might have felt. He does not doubt Sylvain thinks himself skilled, but Seteth is absolutely certain Sylvain would be prone to showing off just as he tried to, earlier, in Seteth’s office. No, Seteth will have to proceed slowly, put him under enough to _listen_ , and what would that entail? Spanking him, if he refused to obey instructions?

Ah. Seteth groans and slides a hand beneath his pants, taking his cock in an easy grip and stroking it. He covers his eyes with his other arm, gasping a bit, deliciously aroused at the thought of bending Sylvain over his desk. Spanking him, forcing him into that lovely, quiet, accepting place he’d been with Seteth’s quill in his mouth. 

Yes, that’s how it would go, probably, wouldn’t it? Sylvain would come back, too eager, likely desperate to come. He’ll kneel, and try so very hard to be _good_ for Seteth, now that he’s been put under properly for once in his life, but Sylvain will push for it, too needy. Seteth will ask if he’s been a good boy for him, if he’s learned some self-control. 

He is not sure what the answer will be. Sylvain is not a man known for restraint, but that look on his face when he left Seteth’s office, the soft quiet there...surely he must want that, again? Or will he fight it, and yes, of course he will. The thought of Sylvain going to his village girl makes Seteth growl, a noise that isn’t entirely human, and he has to push the possessiveness aside. He said Sylvain could not come, he’ll have to, perhaps, give him more rules, when next he returns -- 

_If he returns,_ his rational mind says, merely a whisper in the growing storm of his arousal. 

_Oh,_ whispers the other part, the one so eager to have Sylvain there, again, kneeling and in need of what Seteth can give him. _He’ll be back. And he will have tried to behave, but it won’t have worked and he’ll feel guilty._

Which means, yes, Sylvain will need to be lovingly disciplined. Then he won’t feel badly, and he’ll understand that it isn’t about being the perfect submissive, but allowing one’s dominant to take care of them. Sylvain is a mess. Seteth wants to straighten him out, put him under, give him what he’s aching for. 

And ah, Goddess help him. _He wants Sylvain to disobey_ so that Seteth can correct him. 

Seteth curses softly in a language he shouldn’t speak aloud, thrusting into his hand, cock slick from arousal. He can feel the edges of his form, his true form, pressing at him; his teeth sharpen, his back aches for wings, his toes curl and his fingers want to be talons, things that can tear. His cock feels -- different, for a moment. Thicker. Longer. 

He forces it back, thinks instead of Sylvain showing up bratty and dismissive, trying to seduce instead of obey. Of putting Sylvain over his desk, pulling his uniform pants down and spanking him hard on his firm ass. The sounds he might make. The way he will rut against Seteth’s desk. How it will feel to hold him by the back of the neck while he spanks him, thoroughly, as humiliatingly as he can. It’s what Sylvain needs and oh, Seteth wants to give it to him -- 

_Then, once his ass is beautifully red and hot under my hand, and his apologies as genuine as his tears, then perhaps I’ll put him on his knees and let him show me how grateful he is. Teach him to pleasure me as I wish, not how he thinks I want it._

He comes with a sharp hiss of breath, hips pushing up off his bed and making an absolute, utter mess of himself. It’s been some time since he’s … seen to himself, that’s certain, but this is beyond simple necessity. He cleans himself up, then thinks to himself that as much as he might not wish to, it would be best if he spoke to Rhea. 

A thought he is pleased to have had _after_ his...interlude. His mind is calmer, clearer, and at least now he can be honest with what he wants. If Rhea tells him it is forbidden to take a student in hand in such a way, then Seteth will not do it. Of course. 

He is not sure if he wants her to give her permission, or her refusal. Both seem dangerous, for entirely different reasons, and even as he drifts into uneasy sleep, he’s not sure which will win out in the morning.


	3. Chapter 3

“I see,” Rhea says, after Seteth has managed to somewhat inform her of the situation. “Am I correct in hearing that you have taken a personal interest in Sylvain Gautier, and wish to collar him?” 

“I daresay that would not be feasible, even if I wished it,” Seteth says. “He is a young noble, his prospects will not involve being the collared submissive of a Church administrator.” 

“You are far more than that,” Rhea says, with a kind smile. “And a dominant any submissive should be honored to serve.” 

“Yes, well. Be that as it may, I cannot promise him a future, and you, of course, understand that.” They are long-lived, and it is difficult, to be intimately involved with humans whose lives are of the normal sort. “But I can keep him from acting out while he is here. Someone should, he is rather a mess, Rhea.” 

“Yes.” She doesn’t seem surprised or particularly bothered, though she has been distracted of late, with the addition of their new professor. “A tragic story, his family. They have fallen from grace, in the way they worship power instead of the Goddess. It will not end well for them, as we have seen with Miklan.” She shakes her head. “I do not object on moral grounds, Seteth. In my time I’ve put students on their knees, when necessary. But I do know _you_ , and you have never, in my memory. Though it does grow difficult to recall all the years we’ve been here, at times.” 

“Indeed it does,” Seteth says. “And I have not in some time. There was an earlier descendant of House Riegan, I believe, though that would have been...a century ago, if not more. And, oh, well, Blaiddyd’s grandmother. She was quite the menace.” 

“Indeed, I recall that well,” Rhea says, chuckling. “Though I have also seen it happen that many find their future collared submissives and future dominants among their housemates, and that, I would not take from them. A chance to shine in their true natures as the Goddess intends. Is there no one who can do this for young Gautier?” 

“I have considered the options, Rhea, and have yet to arrive at a suitable conclusion for anyone in his house that might take him in hand. Blaiddyd is no dominant, and I rather think his loyal retainer has his hands full.” Seteth smiled. He quite liked Dedue. 

Rhea chuckles. “Yes. There’s others, perhaps he should be encouraged to switch houses?” 

“I think that would be unwise. Sylvain’s bonds with his childhood friends should be strengthened, if possible. The last thing we need is the kingdom falling prey to factions, as did the Alliance. And I cannot imagine what house he would thrive in. Our Imperial Princess seems disinclined toward taking such an interest in her classmates, and von Riegan…” Seteth’s eyes narrow thoughtfully. “Something about him isn’t entirely truthful. Not anything we need to be concerned about, I do not think, but Von Riegan needs someone a bit pricklier who doesn’t melt at his compliments.” 

Rhea smiles at him. “You do take such note of our students and their personalities. If you wish to take Gautier in hand, by all means. His father has made it clear that his priority is that Sylvain learn to be a proper noble and make a good marriage prospect while here, and to learn enough combat to repel the Sreng from their borders. He has never once mentioned Sylvain’s submissiveness, or finding a responsible dominant to see to him after he graduates. Only that he will be displeased if any children are born to his heir out of wedlock.” Rhea rolls her eyes. “He’s a terrible man, really. A shame what he’s doing to his line.” 

To a human, Seteth thinks, this would sound cruel -- and it is, perhaps, to speak of lineages and nobility and conflate them with the living, breathing students who are here among them. But it is not an easy thing to be nigh immortal, and there is a distance you must put between yourselves and humans. Rhea is better at it than most -- too much so, Seteth sometimes thinks, but it is not his place to say. 

He bows. “Very well. I will see to him, then, but you must let me know if it causes any issues, since I am aware it is a delicate balance to walk.” 

“Of course,” she says. “Do send Professor Byleth to me, when you see him, won’t you? I would like a word.” 

Seteth opens his mouth, decides better of it, and bows again. “Of course, Rhea.” She has made it perfectly clear she does not wish for his opinion regarding her trust in their new arrival, or her hope that he is somehow the mother she so cruelly lost reborn to them. Seteth is not sure he believes such a thing is possible, and he wonders if she really believes it. 

It is as it is, though. Seteth loves Rhea fiercely and is absolutely loyal to her, but that does not mean he always agrees with her actions. 

Seteth turns and leaves her there, smiling softly, hopeful and wistful in a way he cannot find it in himself to criticize. They are not human, but they have hearts, and they still beat. Still ache for what they’ve lost, and what they hope to find again. 

***

Sylvain does, for what it’s worth, make an attempt at self-control.

It doesn’t come naturally to him, really. Control isn’t exactly a mainstay for the Gautiers, not when raw power and brute strength is what they need for the border. So when Sylvain is asked to bring out the lance to test the focus of his crest, throws the damn thing clear through a boulder in the field out back, and shoves it into Professor Byleth’s hands on the way out, there’s really nothing else for it.

“Seteth can fuck _himself_ ,” Sylvain says, five drinks in and writhing under the less than firm hand of a new girl, Genevieve or Ginine or Wendy, who at least knows how to suck a cock well enough. She asks to ride him, after, and Sylvain realizes, a little belatedly, that Breone—Ginnie—goddess, that _she_ is probably a submissive, too. Which does neither of them any good, really.

“Who’s Seteth?” she asks, climbing into Sylvain’s lap. She has nice breasts, full and heavy, and she grins when Sylvain grabs a handful.

“No one,” Sylvain tells her. She straddles him, and Sylvain pushes her onto the straw mattress. “Don’t do that. I’m not. You know. Not gonna have a little. Little Sylvain.”

“But you said you loved me,” says. Says. The new one. “You said I’m the, the moon to your stars.”

“Yeah, but the moon isn’t full, and you won’t be, either,” Sylvain says, and the girl looks at him sharply, brows lowered.

“Oh,” she says.

“Come on,” Sylvain says, but when he rolls to pin her down, she gets to her feet, leaving him to flop onto the bed. “Don’t be like that.”

“I’m going home,” she says, hurriedly running her fingers through her curls. “Tess was right, you know. About you.”

Sylvain squints as she shrugs on her gown. “Tess was…”

“Oh, to hell with you,” the girl says, and breezes out the door, leaving Sylvain alone on an itchy, lumpy mattress, too far gone to even muster the enthusiasm to follow.

He doesn’t go home. He wakes up in the small rented room, rings for a servant to bring up some water and breakfast, and heads back to the dorms sometime around noon with a pounding headache. He falls asleep in the baths, then drags himself to the mess hall and tries to ignore his classmates’ sidelong looks.

“You missed the teacher evaluation lesson, you know,” Annette says, as Sylvain picks through the most tasteless, unseasoned food in all of Fodlan.

“Yeah? Glad I stayed in sick, then,” Sylvain says, trying on his usual smile. It works alright—Annette smiles back and leans over to give him one of her slices of fried and sweetened toast. “You’re an actual saint, Annette.”

“Good thing flattery gets you everywhere,” Annette says. “But I don’t know. Seteth asked about you. Why you weren’t there. Dedue said you were sick, though.”

“Seteth was there?”

“Yeah.” Annette pours honey over the remains of her dinner. “He was the evaluator. Remember?”

“You know what,” Sylvain says. He pushes his plate towards Dedue. “Just take all of it. As thanks. I think I’m. Still recovering, yeah.”

“I bet you are,” Felix mutters, from Dedue’s other side.

“What am I supposed to do with this,” Sylvain hears, as he slips off the bench. He tugs at the collar of his jacket, as though that’s enough to hide him from _anyone_ with his hair a beacon for the surrounding countryside, and beats a quick retreat for the door. If he’s careful, maybe he can convince Hilda to draw on some dark circles under his eyes, or maybe he can see if Claude still has that potion, the one that marries you to the privy for a few hours.

He’s so busy keeping his head down and his collar up that he doesn’t notice that someone is already coming through the door on his way out. He slams into their shoulder, goes spinning into the door frame, and grabs them by the jacket so as not to go sliding feet-first to the floor.

Firm hands grab Sylvain’s wrists, and he looks up into Seteth’s level gaze.

“Have a care,” Seteth says, and there’s just enough dominance in his tone that Sylvain half wonders if he should get it over with and start groveling now. “Molinaro says you took ill today.”

Sylvain makes a strangled noise of assent. “Yeah. Just. Heading back to the dorm. Can’t eat, you know. Stomach bug. Terrible. Laid me out all day.”

“And all night, it seems,” Seteth says, and _fuck_ , how does he know? Can he actually tell? “We received a complaint from the village.”

Sylvain forces a smile. “Must’ve been someone else. _I’ve_ been nothing but—“

“Choose your words carefully, Gautier,” Seteth says, and yeah, there it is, the dominance from a few nights ago, cold and implacable as steel. 

Sylvain opens his mouth, but nothing comes out. Seteth nods. “Come to my office tonight at the ninth bell. We will discuss a suitable punishment for your transgressions.”

“Yes, sir,” Sylvain says, and thrills a little at the look that gets him, the tightening of Seteth’s hands around his wrists. Then he lets go, and Sylvain drifts uncertainly back to his room, where the cat he’s now unofficially adopted is waiting for him.

“Hey, Tuna Roll,” he says, opening the door for him. The tabby saunters inside, and Sylvain collapses face first on his mattress.

“I’m fucked,” he tells Tuna Roll. “I mean, hopefully in a good way. He _looked_ about ready to flay me _alive_.”

Tuna Roll just stretches out on the windowsill, belly to the sun.

Sylvain lifts his face from the mattress. “Maybe he’s going to flay me alive in a _bad_ way, though. What do you think? Give him a little incentive?”

His cat just closes his eyes.

“Right. That’s what I get for asking you.”

Sylvain goes on the offensive. He pulls out his tightest leggings, the ones that squeeze his thighs and leave nothing to the imagination—and opens his shirt down to the third button, exposing a good amount of skin. With someone as obviously repressed as Seteth, that’s pretty much the equivalent of showing up naked, covered in whipped cream.

Sylvain stops for a moment to consider that.

“No,” he says, and tousles his hair just enough to look like he didn’t mean to before pulling on his shiniest boots.

Tuna Roll is unimpressed when Sylvain gestures to himself, but honestly, all cats are critics. He looks great. He looks _killer_. He looks ready to win the goddamn battle of the eagle and lion single-handedly, except if the battle of the eagle and lion was about cocksucking, which. It honestly should be.

Then he checks the clock, realizes it’s only five, and groans.

“No,” he says, after he’s paced the floor of his bedroom at least six times. “No. No, I’m not just going to wait around like I’m a girl at the tower waiting for her goddamn true love. This is about dick, Sylvain. _Dick_. You don’t have to _think_ about it.”

So he doesn’t. He heads straight to Seteth’s office, damn nine o’clock, damn Seteth’s stern voice and unsettlingly strong grip. Sylvain isn’t a slave to his desires, and he’s going to _prove_ it by being so damn early even Seteth doesn’t have a chance to complain.

Except Seteth isn’t in when Sylvain gets there. The office is locked, and _Rhea_ is still holding court just outside, alone in the empty viewing chamber. She nods to Sylvain, and Sylvain pulls himself together enough to bow, cheeks flaming.

“Why, Gautier the younger,” Rhea says. “What brings you here?”

“I’m.” Sylvain struggles to regain a scrap of composure. “Why, to see you, esteemed archbishop.”

“Is that so?” Rhea’s eyes glitter. Sylvain feels a sudden kinship with the small, slivery little fish that find themselves trapped in the sights of a shark. “How kind of you. And what would you require of me?”

Sylvain can almost see the sharp teeth behind her smiling lips. He knows when a woman is out of his league, and Rhea is so far beyond it that she may as well be on a distant star. 

“Just your company,” Sylvain’s mouth says, independent of his brain.

Rhea’s smile widens, just a little, and Sylvain, lost in unfamiliar territory with only his screaming, desperate brain and too-tight leggings, bows and extends his arm.

***  
Seteth arrives at his office close to seven, thinking he might be able to get some work done before Sylvain arrives. 

It’s wistful thinking, most likely. But he can hardly concentrate on anything, as evidenced by his attempt to have dinner with Flayn and Professor Hanneman, which is mostly a haze of him nodding and making non-committal noises -- hopefully he has not done something inappropriate, like offer up Flayn for one of Hanneman’s experiments. 

Still, easier to be distracted in his office than around his daughter or the other faculty. He can mentally prepare himself for his... meeting .... with Sylvain, which. Well. He was there, when the complaints were brought from the village. And he knew, after one look at Sylvain, precisely what state he was in that led him to missing his classes. Again. 

He’s thinking about the best way to handle this when he stops dead in his tracks after entering the audience chamber. There’s a tea service set up, and Rhea is smiling her sweet smile at none other than Sylvain Gautier, who is pale-faced and babbling as if his life depends on it. 

“....sweet cat, really, I named him Tuna Roll. Can I keep him? There are so many cats,” Sylvain is saying, and he flings a hand out for emphasis and nearly knocks over the tray of sweets. 

“Oh, dear,” Rhea says, smoothly, intercepting it and putting it to rights. “Please, have one if you like.” 

“No, I. No, it’s. Fine.” 

Rhea’s smiling the same smile she once gave the King of Liberation before she stabbed him through the heart. “Please, Sylvain. Enjoy your tea. It was so kind of you to suggest it, after all. And the sweets, we don’t want those to go to waste, do we?” 

“No, ma’am,” says Sylvain. He takes a sweet from the tray and crams it into his mouth. 

Seteth casts his eyes upward. _Honestly, Rhea, what are you playing at?_

“Seteth,” Rhea says. “Please, join us. Sylvain stopped by and asked me for tea, isn’t that lovely?” 

It’s certainly something. Seteth stalks over, beset by a curious possessiveness and also an unshakable certainty that Sylvain did _not_ show up simply to take tea with Rhea, and says, “Gautier, you were to come to my office at the ninth bell, not the seventh.” 

“Fifth,” Rhea says, sipping her tea. Her eyes are sparkling, but Seteth is certain Sylvain isn’t catching her amusement. “Or half-past, at least. It’s so nice to catch up with the students. Some of them think I am nigh on inapproachable, you realize, when the truth is, you know, I quite adore tea time.” 

"I han hom hack," Sylvain mumbles, around a mouthful of cake. 

Seteth pinches the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger, and ignores Rhea's indelicate, small snort of laughter into her teacup. "Do try and show at least a modicum of appropriateness when you are taking tea with the Archbishop, if you please. I'll see you in my office when you've finished. And Gautier, do not forget to thank Lady Rhea for her time."

"Um," Sylvain says, coughing a bit. 

"Would you care for a sweet, Seteth?" asks Rhea, voice as saccharine as the sugary confection she is ostensibly offering. 

"No, thank you. Sweets are not to my palate."

"Oh, that's right. Your tastes run more to savory treats." Rhea's shoulders shake, but the look on her face is benign enough that Seteth is sure Sylvain doesn't know she's teasing. 

"That would be correct, yes," Seteth manages. "Do as I said, Sylvain."

"I - yes, sir," Sylvain says, half eager and half mocking, and Seteth's teeth are on edge as he lets himself into his office to wait. 

He was already going to wait for Sylvain, but it gets his dominance urges rising like a tide, the thought of -- well. _Waiting for Sylvain_. Honestly. 

It’s near the eighth bell when Sylvain knocks on his office door. “I, ah. Lady Rhea. She had me clean the tea service.” 

“She should not have had to ask,” Seteth says. “You should have offered. It’s only polite, when you invite someone to tea. Which is, of course, why you were so _early_ , yes? A desire to have tea with the archbishop?” 

“Ah,” says Sylvain, and rakes a hand through his hair. He tries that same smile with Seteth, the messy one, though this time Seteth is a bit more understanding of the dazed expression on his face. Rhea does have that effect on people.

Sylvain tries to make up for it, of course. “Yeah. I thought you seemed, you know. Eager to see me, maybe?” He tries a leer. 

Seteth gives him a sharp look. “We both know what you’re doing, so let’s be honest about it, shall we? As usual, you are attempting to control the situation. That’s why you came here early.” 

“Well,” Sylvain says, and there’s that bitter little smile, again. “I was eager, yeah, but come on, weren’t you? You were here early, too.” 

Seteth stares at him. “Gautier. I’m going to give you a choice. You are a submissive, I am a dominant. We have complimentary natures. I have never, in all my years --” _of which there are infinitely more than you know_ \-- “seen a submissive as desperate as you are to be properly instructed and shown your place. I’d say _put in your place_ , but I hardly think you know what that is.” 

“And you do?” 

Ah, there it is. The anger that’s at the heart of all of this. “Yes, Sylvain. I do. And if you would like to learn, to have me teach you, then you will kneel for me, and you will _submit_. Nothing happens here that is not planned and instructed by me. I will show you what apparently no one has bothered to teach you in the nineteen years of your life, and you will be _quiet_ and learn.” Seteth holds up a hand. “I am not going to harm you or belittle you or treat you as badly as you seem to think you should be. Submission is a gift and you are going to learn how to give it. But you are under no obligation to do this, and it is your choice whether or not you wish to be instructed or left to flounder with your village girls and your bad attitude.” 

“What the fuck,” says Sylvain. “You’re not my -- my _father_.” 

“Certainly not,” says Seteth, chin raising. “If I were, you wouldn’t be in such need of my help. Now, Sylvain, I haven’t an infinite amount of time to wait for your decision. Say no, and I’ll give you the same lecture I would anyone who is carousing and wasting their educational opportunities. I’m told I have quite the formidable glare.” 

Sylvain startles, clearly not sure if Seteth is joking or not. “You. Uh. Yeah, you do.” 

“So. Have you an answer?” 

Seteth is not surprised at all when, in lieu of speaking, Sylvain just makes a soft little sound...and goes to his knees, right there next to Seteth’s desk. 

Good. He nods, watching as Sylvain puts his shoulders back and his hands behind him, just as Seteth taught him. “There. That’s good. Now. You’re on voice restrictions, so do not speak unless I specifically ask you a question. And these questions will require an answer of _yes, sir,_ or _no, sir_ , no equivocation and no _excuses_ , all right?” 

He waits, then sighs. “That was a question.” 

“Yes, sir.” 

“Excellent, we are on the same page.” Seteth takes out a sheet of parchment, and a new quill. “First, I can only assume your eagerness to be in my office is because you are aware just how many rules you broke?” 

“No, sir.” 

Seteth taps the quill on his desk. “You were eager for something else, then?” 

“Yes. Sir,” Sylvain adds, a splash of color on his cheeks. 

“I see. Rewards are given when they are earned.” He leans forward and tips Sylvain’s chin up. “And while I don’t think you’re lying to me, I think you are wrong about what you came here for. Would you like to know what I think?” 

“Yes, sir,” says Sylvain, but there’s tightness there, and something in the way he won’t look at Seteth that makes Seteth pause. “Does your father make you call him _sir_? Nod, if that’s true.” 

Sylvain nods. 

“I see. Hmm. Well, that won’t do, I won’t have you mistaking me for your father. I’m not terribly sure he’s doing you any favors, so. A simple _yes_ or _no_ will do. There is no need for the honorific unless you are feeling particularly moved to use it.” 

“Oh, I -- fuck, sorry,” Sylvain mutters, and then. He flinches, slightly, as if he’s waiting for a strike. 

Seteth takes a slow breath and tips Sylvain’s face up. “Look at me.” 

It takes a few seconds for Sylvain to comply. Seteth has to admit he enjoys watching Sylvain struggle against it, fighting Seteth’s natural dominance, his own body’s urges. Eventually, Sylvain raises his eyes and meets Seteth’s, his own guarded, wary.

“Your father, if you disobey, does he strike you? In the face?” 

“Yes,” Sylvain says. 

“I won’t do that. Now. Back to my questions.” Seteth drops his fingers and picks up his quill again. “You were out past curfew, yes or no?” 

“Yes.” 

He nods, then makes a tickmark on the paper. “And you. Had congress. With one -- ah. Two, girls?” 

“No.” 

Seteth glances at him. “I do expect honesty.”

Sylvain is clearly trying not to break the rules, which is something, Seteth supposes. “Do you have a question?” 

“Yes.” 

Seteth taps the quill on the paper. “You may ask.” 

“What’s. What counts as, as _congress_?” 

“I would think you would know,” Seteth says, a tad dryly. “Did you have sexual relations with them?” 

Sylvain gives him that look again, shifting on his knees. Seteth has just now noticed how obscenely tight Sylvain’s trousers are, and that Sylvain’s cock is hard.

Seteth sighs. “Are you going to ask me what counts as sexual relations.” 

“Yeah,” Sylvain says. “Sorry?” 

“Don’t apologize for things you aren’t sorry for. I told you not to come, did you?” 

“No,” Sylvain says. 

“All right. Hmm. But you attempted it, twice?” He glances at Sylvain, eyebrows raising. “You’re blushing. Is it the nature of the discussion, or are you worried I will now find you somehow lacking in skill in that department?” 

Sylvain’s eyes are as wide as soup tureens. He swallows, visibly. 

“I’m assuming you were too intoxicated to complete the act,” Seteth says, dryly. “Is that correct?” 

“Ah,” says Sylvain, which Seteth allows, since it wasn’t entirely a word. “Y-yes?” 

“Either way, you did attempt it, which you were not supposed to do, but you did not come, which is good. You drank to excess, I assume?” 

“Oh, yeah,” says Sylvain, and chuckles. 

Seteth glances at him. 

“Yes,” Sylvain says, quickly, looking away. 

“You should really control yourself around alcohol, it has been the downfall of many a smart individual over the years. And because of your ill-thought carousing and attempts at sexual congress --” 

Sylvain coughs, which Seteth ignores and keeps talking. “You also missed class and I _specifically_ told you not to do that.” 

“Yes,” says Sylvain. 

“And lied, saying you were sick.” 

“No.” Sylvain shakes his head, so emphatically that it’s clear he, at least, does not think he is lying. 

“You were truly ill?” 

“Yes.” 

“From over-indulging,” Seteth says. 

“Oh. Uh. I mean. Yes.” That flinch again. 

Seteth would like to find Margrave Gautier and teach _him_ a thing or two. “All right. So you’re aware you were not supposed to do these things. The reason you were so quick to come to my office, Syvlain, is because you feel _guilty_.” 

“What,” says Sylvain, scoffing. “Me? Nah. Doesn’t track.” 

“Yes.” Seteth leans forward and takes his chin in his fingers. “You. And yes, it does track. Now, I’m going to show you what a _proper_ dominant does, when his submissive acts up or disobeys. You will stand, pull those pants down -- if you can get them down, which I am beginning to think might be quite the struggle, and bend over my desk.” 

Something hot flashes in Sylvain’s eyes, and he gives a sharp inhale of breath as he bites his bottom lip. Seteth’s cock stirs, because Sylvain’s honest reactions are so much more arousing than the things he does because he thinks they will be. 

“I’ll spank you for your transgressions, but first, I assume that’s not something that has been done to you, in punishment?” 

“No,” Sylvain whispers, his eyes glassy, like they were when Seteth took the quill out, fucked Sylvain’s mouth with his fingers. 

“Then that’s what we’ll do.” Seteth slides two fingers in Sylvain’s mouth. “Behave.” 

Sylvain doesn’t try sucking, just kneels there, and stares at him. Good. 

“The benefit of those absurdly tight trousers of yours is that I do not need to inquire if you are hard for me,” Seteth says, and smiles again as he gets that little flash of heat in Sylvain’s bright copper gaze. “So. I will spank you, and you will take yourself in hand, touch yourself, and -- you are not drunk, the archbishop doesn’t share her quality spirits with the students, so I’m assuming you had only bergamot in your teacup.” 

“The -- Lady Rhea has -- I, ah, yes,” Sylvain says, very quickly. “Yes? No? I. Ah.” 

“My apologies. That was too many questions. You haven’t been drinking, is the question you should answer.” 

“No,” Sylvain says. 

“Then, you shouldn’t have the problem you did, with your village girls. And since we’re having this discussion --” he grabs the back of Sylvain’s neck, hard. “There will be no more village girls, Sylvain. I will call a halt to this at once if I hear you have been to see them. There will be no allowances made for this. I will give you what you need when you’ve earned it. Do you understand?” 

“Yes,” Sylvain says, and there’s a little sullenness there, but no matter. Seteth doesn’t need him to like the rules, not immediately. He just needs Sylvain to know them, and understand them. 

“As I said, since you are not drunk, you will have to show actual self-control. Because, and let’s just go ahead and have you admit it, you _would_ have come, for one or both of them, if you could have.” He slides his hand around, gets it loosely around Sylvain’s throat now, and watches with a cool gaze as Sylvain’s cock pushes hard against his trousers. 

“Yes,” Sylvain whispers, and there it is, the first hint of the guilt that brought him here, even if he’s not yet admitted it. 

“And you knew I told you not to. It wasn’t me that stopped you, it was your body. So tonight, you will be the one to show me you can follow directions. We’ll do...five for each infraction, so, that shall be…” he consults his parchment, which has four ticks. “Twenty strikes of my hand and then you needn’t worry about it again.” 

Seteth drops his hand, stands up, and moves his desk chair. Then he rearranges the items on his desk to his satisfaction and says, “Stand up, see if you can get those pants down without my needing to remove them with some sort of sharp implement, and bend over to take your punishment.” 

***

The problem with sexy pants, Sylvain realizes, as he wedges his fingers under the hem of his painfully tight leggings, is there’s no real sexy way of taking them off. Maybe if he cut them, but then he’d have to walk back with his ass out for the goddess and all her children to see. So Sylvain has to wriggle and hiss and jerk the leggings down over his ass, which does look amazing with the leggings lifting it up a little, but his thighs are… solid, and he makes it about halfway down his thighs before he has to wrench his fingers out and shake some feeling into them.

“It’s a marvel you could fit yourself into those,” Seteth says, and Sylvain almost says, _Yeah, I’m pretty impressed myself_ , except he can’t, and he’s still bent over, trying vainly to get them down past his knees.

After what feels like an eon of the least sexy disrobing of Sylvain’s life, he stands bare-assed in Seteth’s office, bowed over the desk with one hand on the edge and the other hovering over his erect cock. He glances back at Seteth, who is watching him with something close to hunger in his gaze. He catches Sylvain’s eye and leans over him, twisting Sylvain’s head around to face the desk.

“Take yourself in hand for me,” Seteth says, and Sylvain sucks in a sharp breath as his fingers close around his cock. “Stroke yourself. No, slower.” Sylvain wants to whine as he forces himself to slow down, rolling his palm over the slick head of his cock on the upstroke. “Don’t slow down, and don’t come. Do you understand?”

“Yes,” Sylvain says, suddenly a little more worried about this than he had been a minute ago.

“Good. Let us begin.”

Sylvain doesn’t have time to brace himself. The first strike is harder than he expected, and Sylvain bites at his lip as the force of it pushes him into his hand. There’s shame there, the sting of a punishment, but there’s also something of a release, a thrill that runs through him as he curls his toes in his boots and tries not to jerk forward.

His breath comes out in a rush, and Seteth waits until Sylvain has taken another before he spanks him again.

Fuck.

 _Fuck_ , Sylvain thinks, as he’s jerked almost helplessly into his fist, fucking it every time Seteth’s hand connects. He’s already struggling not to slow down—His cock is impossibly hard, and Seteth is unrelenting, varying sharp smacks with slow, brutal spanks that almost have him stumbling into the desk. 

Sylvain starts to tremble about halfway through. 

At fifteen, Sylvain’s fingers are shaking. He wants to beg to slow down, to come, _anything_ , but a small part of him stops him from speaking out, because. Because Seteth didn’t give him permission.

He jerks forward into his hand again, and Sylvain smacks the desk with his free hand and whines, wordless and desperate, looks back at Seteth with his eyes burning with tears, his lip swollen between his teeth, a moan building in his throat.

The look Seteth gives him has Sylvain gasping, and when he strikes him again, Sylvain comes all over his fingers with a broken cry. It’s overwhelming, the wave of pleasure and bone-deep guilt, and Sylvain hangs his head and curls his fingers on the desk as Seteth spanks him one last time.

“Well,” Seteth says, and Sylvain goes to his knees, holding onto the desk for support. He has no proper form, no posture to speak of—tears run hot down his cheeks.

“Sorry,” he says. “I. Sorry, I didn’t. I’m sorry.”

“You’re still under voice restrictions,” Seteth says, and before Sylvain can apologize for that, too, slides his fingers through Sylvain’s hair. “Turn around and face me.”

Sylvain obeys. He’s on the verge of going under—but the shame is too much, is keeping him there, holding him on the brink. Seteth’s going to send him back to the dorm in disgrace, and Sylvain’s going to have to. Deal with it.

“You came before I was done,” Seteth says, and Sylvain nods, clears his throat.

“Yes.”

Seteth is kneading Sylvain’s hair, slowly, and Sylvain finds himself breathing in time to the slow tug and release. “I will not cast you out for failure,” he says. Sylvain keeps his gaze down. He doesn’t want to know if this is true, if Seteth is just saying this to ease an awkward farewell. “We’ll just have to find you tasks you can accomplish.”

Sylvain lifts his gaze, just for a second, and Seteth runs a thumb over his pink cheeks, trails through the damp teartracks along his jaw.

“You came, but you tried not to speak,” Seteth says. “That has some merit. My offer stands. Will you—“

“Yes,” Sylvain says, in a rush, leaning into Seteth’s touch. “Sorry. Yes.”

Seteth’s thumb slides over Sylvain’s mouth, and this time he does suck it, taking it in and looking up at him with no finesse or artifice. He doesn’t even know what expression he’s making. Just that he wants this, wants to be good, to be. Worth the trouble.

“I would give you this,” Seteth says, and Sylvain swallows heavily as Seteth pulls out his thumb, brushes his fingers over the button of his trousers. “Show you what you do to me, when you behave. But you will ask properly, first. You are removed from voice restrictions.”

Sylvain takes a long, shuddering breath.

***  
Well, then. 

Seteth cannot say it was _entirely_ a surprise that Sylvain came before he was finished, and honestly, he cannot say he’s entirely sad to have seen it, either. Sylvain is lovely when he’s no longer posturing, with tears streaking his flushed face, his pants pulled down and his ass red from Seteth’s hand. 

He knows Sylvain is disappointed that he came, and honestly, that is exactly the sort of lesson he wanted Sylvain to learn. And he wants this, he realizes. Wants Sylvain to ask him. 

“Please,” Sylvain says, voice shaking. “I. Please. May I -- I want to see, see what I. What you. Um.” He breathes in again, and his eyes dart around, like he’s worried he’s going to say it wrong, ask incorrectly, be sent away. 

“Do not think so hard about what I want to hear. Ask me for what you want. I promise if you’re being truthful, it won’t be wrong.” 

Sylvain says, all in a rush, “I want to suck you. Make it good, make you happy. Make you come.” 

“Good,” Seteth says, and he reaches down to undo his buttons. “Yes. You may.” He sighs in relieved pleasure as he draws his cock free, stroking himself, watching Sylvain stare at him with naked, eager hunger. “Do you see? When you behave. It is as it should be, between us.” 

“Because I’m a submissive,” says Sylvain. His gaze darts up, then away. “Right?” 

_It would be the same if I were anyone,_ is what he’s really asking. 

Someone has truly failed him. Seteth tips Sylvain’s chin up with two fingers, still stroking himself with his other hand. “Because you are submitting to me, yes, but there are plenty of submissives at this school, Sylvain, and they are not here. You are.” 

“Because I’m a fuck up,” Sylvain says, but drowsily, watching Seteth stroke himself. 

“No. You simply need to be taught. It _is_ a school.” He laughs softly. “Allow me to teach you to pleasure me. You have earned it, and this is a lesson I think you will enjoy.” 

“Yeah,” Sylvain says, and leans forward, just a little. He stops, thought, and glances up at Seteth. Waiting for permission. 

His cock grows impossibly harder at that, and Seteth slides his free hand in Sylvain’s hair, draws him close. “Do not try and take it deep all at once. Start slow. I like to know that you’ve thought about it, that you’re enjoying it.” 

Sylvain takes him in his mouth, eyes still turned upward, and he sucks gently on the head of Seteth’s cock, tasting him. 

“Good, that’s it, yes,” Seteth murmurs, spreading his legs wider. “Use your tongue, you’re pleasuring me, and I know full well you’ve got a quick one.” Seteth feels Sylvain’s tongue flicker over the slit at the head of his cock and shivers, curling his fingers in Sylvain’s hair, careful not to pull or thrust. “When you’ve done this before, I imagine they’ve used your mouth with no care for you at all. Thrust deep, taken your throat, made you choke, made you cry.” 

Sylvain moans around his cock and nods, or tries. 

“I imagine you do like that, being used.” Seteth’s breath comes faster. “Would you like it if I did that?” 

Sylvain nods, again, hand sliding up Seteth’s thigh -- but he jerks it away, quickly, and that’s. Yes. _Yes_. Seteth reaches down, takes his wrist and draws Sylvain’s hand back. “Good boy. You may touch me, my cock. Firm pressure, but slowly. Yes. Ah, good.” 

Sylvain pulls off, his hand sliding up and down Seteth’s dick. “I would. Um. You can, if you want, you. Yes. Use me, I -- like that. Choking on it.” 

“I imagine you do.” Seteth reaches down, rubs his thumb over Sylvain’s lower lip. “Or would you rather hear how I stroked myself off in my room, imagining you behaving well enough to earn pleasing me like this?” 

Sylvain’s eyes go blurry and he tilts his head back, unconsciously showing his throat. “That, please,” he almost begs, and Seteth smiles softly. He does like being right. 

“Take me in your mouth again, try -- a little deeper, yes, but there’s no need to choke on it. If I want you to, I’ll make you. You should enjoy this, too. And I have no doubt you like to be used, Sylvain, but I question how you think that works. There is more than one way for a dominant to use his submissive. Up, there, suck on the head for a -- yes, like that,” Seteth pants, his head falling back a bit, shivering from the sweet pleasure of Sylvain’s mouth. “I use you how I wish to, do you understand? That’s what I thought about. How you would cry for me, if I reddened your -- lovely backside -- under my palm. Just as you did, do you see? If you truly want to please me, you will let me lead you. That’s good, you can take it deeper, there we are.” 

Sylvain is, as it happens, quite good at sucking cock. He gets Seteth hard and aching, cock wet with spit and pre-come, and by the time Sylvain is gently playing with his balls he seems to finally understand that Seteth will guide him and gives it up, finally, sinking under so beautifully that Seteth wishes he could capture it in a sketch, some painting to keep private for his own enjoyment. 

“That’s it, see, it’s not so very hard to behave for me, is it?” He draws Sylvain closer, feels the lack of resistance, the ease in which he takes Seteth down. “Now you aren’t fighting me, are you? No, and you’ll take me, deep in your throat, you may choke for me, cry, go on, now I’ll take your throat.” He does, fucking gently but deep, and Sylvain is so relaxed for him, boneless, eyes blurry and glazed. 

He chokes eventually, and Seteth holds him there, feels the way Sylvain’s throat flutters around his cock and gives a low, pleased moan. He has to fight the urge of his shifting nature, focusing on Sylvain between his spread thighs, the sweet suction, the slick heat of his mouth. It’s been so long since he’s had this. He’s quite forgotten how good it feels. 

“Yes, yes, cry for me, that’s wonderful -” he reaches down and slides his fingers through the tears on Sylvain’s face as he chokes and shudders on his cock, then brings his fingers to his mouth and licks the salty taste, shivering. 

Sylvain makes a noise at that, a moan, but he doesn’t move, doesn’t try to pull off. Seteth lets himself enjoy it for a long few seconds before he draws himself out of Sylvain’s sweet mouth and holds him there with a hand in his hair. Seteth strokes himself a few times and watches through half-slitted eyes as Sylvain so prettily bares his throat again, mouth parted, waiting and eager for Seteth to finish on his face. 

Which he does, and then falls back in his chair, panting, taking in the sight before him; Sylvain quiet and under, kneeling his hands behind his back, showing his throat, Seteth’s spend on his face, making no move to clean it. 

“Clean your face, do it properly,” Seteth says, and Sylvain reaches up, smears his fingers through the come cooling on his skin, then licks it off -- no posturing, nothing but obedience, submission. 

Seteth fixes his clothing, then says, “Come close.” Sylvain shuffles forward. Seteth strokes his damp hair off his face, takes it between his hands. “This is submission, Sylvain. Do you understand, now? Perhaps more than before? It is not about being used until you feel you are of some worth to a dominant simply because they put you on your knees, fucked your lovely mouth. It is about doing it because you wanted to please someone, and that someone wanted you to please them.” 

Sylvain inhales again, blinks hazily at him. “I. Think so. It’s not like this.” His gaze shifts down again. “Did I do what you wanted.” 

Of course he would ask. He is so new to this, the simple thing a submissive should have known, should have been taught, when first it manifested. “You did. You pleased me.” He draws him close and kisses him on the mouth, softly. “I will escort you back to your room. You will sleep, and be on time for class, and I will have a list for you, rules you will follow. When you do not follow them, I will punish you. You won’t be turned away as long as you try. Will you do that for me?” 

“Yes, sir,” Sylvain breathes. 

“Good.” Seteth kisses him again. “Then let us see about your...trouser situation. Perhaps next time you will wear something a tad less restrictive, or in need of scissors to remove.” 

Sylvain mumbles, “Wanted to look good for you,” and Seteth strokes his hair and lets himself enjoy that momentary vanity, that Sylvain put those absurdly tight pants on for _him_. 

“They were flattering, as I am sure you know. But you’ll only wear those for me, when I ask it of you.” 

“Yeah, I -- okay,” says Sylvain, leaning in as Seteth pets him, his eyes sliding closed. “Okay.”


	4. Chapter 4

That night, Sylvain lies in bed with a cat oozing onto his pillow, feathery tail shoved directly in his face. He wonders, dimly, if he should have asked to stay the night. If Seteth would let him. Probably not. Probably a bad idea, when he shares a suite with his little sister. Not that Sylvain’s much of a cuddler. More like a ship passing through, yeah, just a casual thing, doesn’t need more than a pat on the head and a cock down his throat and he’s golden.

Tuna Roll slides over his shoulder, purring, and Sylvain digs his fingers into his soft fur.

“Who’s a good boy,” he whispers. “I mean, objectively it’s you. You’re the good boy.”

Tuna Roll chirps and stretches, and Sylvain sighs as the bells of the cathedral toll through the hills, low and somber as a call to arms.

When he wakes, there’s a letter pushed under his door.

“No,” he whispers, rolling off the bed and scrambling for it as his ungrateful cat screams for fish. If it’s orders from his father, something about taking that damn lance to the border again, Sylvain will set the letter on _fire_. He rips it open, and the paper that unfolds in his hands is scrawled with the careful writing of one _Sir Seteth, First to the Archbishop_.

“Tasks for Sylvain Jose Gautier,” Sylvain reads, and feels a little thrill run up his spine at the thought. Maybe he’ll have him, oh, wear something underneath his uniform, or suck him off under his desk for two hours a day, or—

“Study in the library twice a week,” he reads, and squints. The list in his hands sounds a lot like. Well. _Homework_. Don’t drink. Go to choir at the start of the week. Hang out with friends, doing what _they_ want. Spar with _Felix_.

He even wants Sylvain to write a report. About the lance.

And sure, fine, there’s _Don’t come without permission_ right there at the top, but if Sylvain thought he was going to spend the week getting acquainted with one of the curious little phalluses they sell in the Abyss, he clearly thought wrong.

He sets the list down. Thinks about kneeling for Seteth last night, the hazy, warm feeling of being under, of asking the kind of questions he never dares to bring up when he’s fucking around in the village, closing his eyes to Seteth’s hand in his hair.

“Fuck me,” Sylvain says, and turns to find something to feed his clearly dying cat.

***

“What,” Felix says, when Sylvain pulls down an iron lance from the rack in the training yards the next day. Sylvain runs his palms over the smooth patch where dozens of trainees have gripped the staff just a little too hard, and Felix follows him with his gaze, brows pinched together. 

“I said I wanted to spar,” Sylvain says.

Felix continues to stare.

Sylvain, dressed in the loose-fitting training uniform that makes his ass look flat as a board and his shoulders uncomfortably blocky, attempts a smile. “Come on, Felix, it’s not like I haven’t picked up a weapon before.”

“Sure,” Felix says, slowly, “but someone always has to drag you here. Usually Ingrid.”

“I can’t just want to spend time with my best friend?” Sylvain asks. He tries to think of the last time he came to the training yards on his own, and balks at the realization that it’s been… months, at least. Since before Miklan, probably.

“No,” Felix says. “And I’m not your best friend. We grew up close by, that’s all.”

“You’d say that to the guy who taught you the counting song for lacing up your boots?” Sylvain says, aghast, and Felix lets out a low snarl and lunges at him. Sylvain laughs, blocking his blow at the last second, and backs up through the dust of the training yards as Felix comes at him like an irate cat with a grudge.

Felix has him pushed up against a pillar at the edge of his sword three times before he’s satisfied. Sylvain drops to the low fence surrounding the yards, sweat creeping down his back, and squints up at Felix as Felix stands over him, blocking the sun.

“So,” he says. “What is it.”

“What’s what, Felix?”

Felix gestures at Sylvain. “This. You were at the library yesterday. You’re training with me. You asked Annette if she wanted to go shopping with you.”

“Someone’s gotta carry all those spell components,” Sylvain says. 

Felix squints at him. “Is this. Are you trying to impress someone.”

“No,” says Sylvain, the man who woke up with a hard-on, screamed into a pillow for a solid minute, and whined about injustice in the world at large and to Gautiers in particular to an uninterested tabby. “Not at all.”

Felix almost smiles. “Okay. Good. We should… do this again. Your footwork’s sloppy, and I can use a sparring partner who isn’t always breaking his swords.”

Sylvain looks up at him, this irritable, prickly noble who used to never be alone for more than an hour, practicing drills in a quiet sparring circle. 

“Yeah,” he says. “Let’s do this again.”

Some rules are easier to follow than others. Not going into town at night proves difficult—After the third night, Sylvain starts to pace. His hands grow restless, fiddling with his pens, the charcoal he uses for spell sigils, the little glass bottles Dimitri used to give him when he was a kid, full of paper stars. With nothing to make his mind go soft and unfocused, he’s left with his thoughts, and his thoughts always circle around to Seteth, standing before him, Seteth’s cock in his mouth, his hand on his backside. That little look that crossed his face when he asked if the Margrave ever struck him.

His father’s voice, sharp and hard, _Look me in the eyes when I’m speaking to you._

The way he held his breath on the edge of going under, waiting for the other shoe to drop.

“I had it better, you know,” he says to Tuna Roll, who is asleep on his magic textbook. “Better than Miklan. Better than most.”

Tuna Roll squints an eye open.

“Look, I’m not thinking about this,” Sylvain says. He starts gathering his books. “I’m _good_ at not thinking about this. Thinking about this isn’t even on the _list_.”

The girls at the village don’t care. They don’t ask questions. They don’t. Make him quiet, make him peel open his own mind until he’s wearing the boards of his bedroom thin.

He can’t go to Seteth with this. It’s. Humiliating. Like going to your lover for something you can handle yourself, something easy, something other people know how to deal with.

_Hello, Seteth, I’m probably emotional, and I was wondering if you could fuck me out of it._ Right. Sure. A great way to kill whatever this is stone dead.

Sylvain opens the door to his bedroom and breathes in. And in. He needs to. Needs to go somewhere. Not the village. He promised not to go to the village. He rocks on the balls of his feet for a minute before he closes the door, turns down the long, dark hallway, and heads for the library.

No one is usually in the library at this hour, which Sylvain knows because he _did_ bring someone back here, once, to thoroughly defile the history section. The lights are off, save for one lamp on a desk in the corner, and when Sylvain opens the door, he hears a squeak and the thump of a chair tumbling to the rug.

“Sorry,” he whispers.

“Sorry!” the darkness whispers back. “Sorry, sorry! I’ll leave! I’ll never come back!”

Oh. Right. Of course Bernadetta would be in the library around midnight. “Bernie, it’s me. Sylvain.”

“I can go,” Bernadetta says, scrambling to pull herself up by the edge of the desk. “You probably need it. The library.”

“The whole thing? Not really.” Sylvain moves slowly, like a tracker trying not to startle a deer in the woods. “You’re writing again?”

“Oh, yes,” Bernie says. Her wide eyes seem to glow in the lamplight. “It’s about. About a girl who saves a wyvern that’s going to be put down, and she wins a race with it, and. It’s silly.”

“No, I bet it’s great. I’m just here because I can’t sleep, Bernie, you can keep writing.”

“Oh. Good.” Bernadetta still eases her chair to the side, as though trying to wedge herself into as defensive a position as possible. Sylvain lights one of the lamps, and she twitches, blotting ink all over her book.

“Why do you always jump like that?” Sylvain asks.

Bernie stares at him. “I don’t know. Why are you asking? Did I jump? I didn’t mean to, I’m sorry, I’m distracting you—“

Sylvain holds his hands up in surrender. “Sorry. Just. Wondering what I can do to… make you _not_ jump.”

“Oh,” Bernie says, quietly. Then, in a voice that _could_ be an attempt at self deprecation if she weren’t just apologizing for breathing the same air, she says, “My father used to tie me to a chair, I guess.”

There’s a long, uncomfortable silence as Sylvain tries to catch his breath. “He what.”

“Nothing! I said nothing. You probably shouldn’t try it, what I said, the thing I didn’t say.”

Sylvain looks at her. Bernadetta, the little mouse who writes stories that speak of deep, heart-wrenching longing and also horses, who hides in the back during lessons so she can embroider delicate pastoral scenes on scraps of cloth. The girl who jumps at sudden noises and shrinks into her seat in class, trying to seem small.

“I.” Sylvain clears his throat. “I started seeing someone, lately. I think.”

“Oh. That’s. Nice?”

“Yeah.” Sylvain looks down at his hands. “I think so. But maybe it’s. Also kind of hard, you know? I uh. I’m not used to like. Expectations, other than maybe getting married and having a lot of kids with the Gautier crest. The usual.”

“Those sound like a lot of expectations, actually. Terrifying ones,” Bernie adds. Her quill scratches along the page, frantic, the skritch of small creatures in the walls. 

“Maybe. I don’t know.” Sylvain tries to laugh, but it comes out hollow. “I, uh. You know, Bernie. I.”

Bernadetta stops writing. Her hair is almost black in the darkness of the library, but her face is lit by the glow of her lamp. She searches his face, and Sylvain pushes his own lamp away, deepening the shadows in his eyes.

“I jump sometimes, too,” he says.

There’s another long silence. Bernadetta tucks some of her unruly hair behind her ear, and sets down her quill.

“Do you want to hear about the girl with the wyvern?” she asks.

Sylvain sighs and blows out the light in his desk lamp. “Sure, Bernie,” he says. “I’d love to.”

***  
Sylvain shows up to his office at the end of the week, with a wild little look in his eyes and a grim sort of smile on his face. “Hi.” 

“Come in,” Seteth says, and he frowns at the...unsettled way Sylvain is looking at him. As if he’s gearing up to be disciplined. “Is something the matter?” 

“I know you’re angry, but please don’t take it out on Bernie. Bernadetta,” he says, after a moment. 

Seteth leans back in his chair and stares. “Close the door, come here, and tell me what you mean by any of that.” 

Sylvain does as instructed, and stands in front of Seteth’s desk. His hands go behind his back, and his shoulders hunch a bit. “I know that we were both late to class, and. What you probably thought, so --” 

Seteth holds up a hand to stop him. “Please. First of all, you look as if you wish to kneel for me. You needn’t wait to be told, if it would settle you. We’re alone here.” 

Sylvain has that weary, suspicious look on his face, the one he usually tries to cover up with a bright smile or some kind of innuendo. He’s surprised, therefore, when Sylvain simply kneels for him, right there in front of his desk. His shoulders relax, and some of that wildness dissipates. 

Good. Seteth nods. “Now, I do know you were late, but Jeralt told me he found you both asleep in the library. I assume you were studying?” 

“They find me with a girl and you assume it’s because we were studying?” 

Seteth tilts his head. “Should I assume otherwise?” He really doesn’t think Bernadetta is inclined toward trysting with Sylvain in the middle of the night in the library, her literary preferences notwithstanding. 

“I don’t know why you wouldn’t,” says Sylvain. 

Seteth sighs. “Why don’t you give me your report. And shoulders back, chin up. You’re a submissive, not a penitent.” 

Sylvain looks briefly startled - by Sothis, he’s so much yet to learn -- and then he adjusts his posture. “I did everything on the list except for the part where I was late to class because I fell asleep in the library.” 

“Good. Go on.” Seteth steeples his fingers and waits. 

“Oh. Uh. I sparred with Felix. Went to town with Annette -- but just to do the shopping,” he adds, quickly, as if Seteth isn’t completely aware that’s all that happened. “Went to choir practice, and the library, like you said I should. I studied. Uh. I didn’t. Um. I didn’t come.” 

Seteth smiles. “Good. I’m very pleased to hear that. Why, then, do you keep looking so miserable? Was it that hard to do as I asked you?” 

“No, but I...the part where I was late.” 

“Oh, well, yes, I suppose that was an infraction, but it’s understandable if you were studying.” 

Sylvain glances away, and then curses under his breath. “I -- no, I wasn’t. But I wasn’t … I wasn’t doing anything I shouldn’t. I couldn’t sleep, and so. I went to the library, there’s usually not anyone there that late. But Bernadetta was, and she and I talked a little, and then I think we, um, fell asleep. That’s why we were late, but I don’t want her to get in trouble.” 

“She won’t.” Seteth doesn’t point out that Bernadetta, for all that she is a recluse, is always in class. Under the table, on occasion, but there. “That is admirable of you, and you performed well this week. Would it make you feel better, if you were punished for being late to class?” 

“Am I in trouble?” 

Seteth huffs and tries to hide his sudden smile. “No, as it happens. If you feel the need to be punished to ease your conscience, then by all means, I’ll take care of it. But there’s a reasonable explanation, and I am a reasonable man. Please don’t make a habit of it, but I see no need to reprimand you unless you request it.” 

“Oh,” Sylvain says, blinking. “Then...no? I don’t feel like I did before.” 

That’s excellent self-awareness, so Seteth gives him a rare smile. “I’m pleased to hear that.” 

“But, um.” Sylvain shifts on his knees. “So, it was pretty hard to follow that first rule.” He winces. “Literally.” 

Seteth chuckles. “But you did it, yes?” 

Sylvain nods. “I did, but I…” his face goes hot. “It was uncomfortable. That’s. A week is a long time, Seteth.” 

“Is there a reason you didn’t come ask me for permission?” Seteth asks, patiently. 

Sylvain’s copper eyes widen. “I can do that?” 

Oh, bless. Had Seteth not made that clear enough? “Of course. The rule, Sylvain. Recite it for me.” 

“I can’t come without permission.” Sylvain licks his lips, and it makes Seteth’s cock start to harden to see the flicker of hunger there, the kind that stems from pure desire and not attempted manipulation. If Sylvain only knew how delightfully arousing he looked when he was desperate without the artifice... hopefully Seteth will be able to impart that, at some point. 

“Does the rule say anything about asking me for permission?” 

“Oh. No, I just didn’t think you’d want me bothering you.” 

Of course that’s why. Not a surprise, really, but all Seteth says is, “I would not have proposed this arrangement if I found it, or you, a bother. Do you think dominants don’t also have needs that must be attended to? I assure you, we do. You may come and ask me for permission during my office hours, if you wish to see to yourself.” 

Sylvain’s mouth curves into a smile. “See to myself?” 

“Masturbate? Self-pleasure? I’m not entirely certain of terminology favored by the youths of -- Sylvain,” Seteth says, mock-severely, as Sylvain laughs. Really laughs, no hint of that self-deprecation that Seteth so dislikes. “In my day, we called it, let me see… _wringing the wyvern_.” 

“You did not,” Sylvain says, and he looks impossibly lovely like this, kneeling in good humor, eyes sparkling, with that sweet edge of tension still running through him. 

Seteth smiles. “You may come and ask for it with whatever phrase you wish, but my permission is _only_ given for yourself and your hand, your pillow, whatever you -- what _now_ , Sylvain.” 

“What’d you call that? Pumping the pegasus?” 

Seteth laughs despite himself. “Clever. You take my meaning, I’m sure.” 

Sylvain nods. “Yeah. So does that mean I can ask for it, now?” 

“Well, yes, but you should know that you have completed your tasks to my satisfaction this week, and that means you may ask me for a reward.” He waits, then clarifies, “If you would like to come, you may, but it needn’t be just by _your_ hand. I assume that’s clear?” 

“I want that,” Sylvain says, quickly. “If -- yeah, I mean, are you offering to get me off?” 

“It is not so much that I am offering, as you have earned it. Do you understand the difference? You performed well, you pleased me, so you may have what you want.” 

“Will you fuck me?” 

Heat shudders down his spine and stiffens his cock, and Seteth needs all his composure not to let Sylvain see just how much the thought of that affects him. “It is the end of week one, Sylvain. These are lessons, one doesn’t jump to casting Aura without learning the basics of simple cure spells, does one?” 

“I’m not really a healer,” says Sylvain. 

“I’m not refusing you,” Seteth says, firmly. “There is a progression and we will follow it. Now, would you like to go back to your room and attend to yourself, or shall I put my hands on you and make you come?” 

Sylvain’s face flushes, his eyes brightening. “That one. Definitely that one.” 

“All right.” Seteth casts a ward on the door with a brief flicker of his eyes and his will; it’s familiar enough by now that he can feel the rhythm of the magic in his blood, his bones. “All right.” He rises from his chair and walks over, holds out a hand. “Up you go.” 

Sylvain drags in an audible breath before he reaches out and lets Seteth pull him to his feet. Sylvain is a little taller than Seteth, but that’s of no matter. He draws Sylvain toward the far wall. “Would you prefer to face me, or the wall?” 

Sylvain rakes a hand through his hair. He clears his throat, looking everywhere but at Seteth. Seteth has the distinct impression that he knows what Sylvain will choose, and that it might not be what Sylvain _wants_ at all. 

One thing at a time. 

“I’ll -- this is. Fine.” Sylvain turns and stares at the wall. 

“All right. You’re all right with my touching you, I assume?” 

“I -- what, yeah,” Sylvain says. He presses his hands to the wall. 

Seteth moves to press up behind him. “Relax, this is supposed to be a reward.” He runs his hands over Sylvain’s back, then leans in and presses a kiss to the back of his neck. “Is something wrong? You need to tell me, if so.” 

“I might die, but other than that, we’re good, here,” Sylvain says, to the wall. 

Seteth chuckles. “Very dramatic. I assure you, I don’t go about killing students, and if so, never in my office. Too messy.” He puts a hand on the back of Sylvain’s neck and squeezes. “That was a joke, Gautier.” 

“I didn’t realize you. Made those, I, ah,” Sylvain shivers, sucking in a breath as Seteth settles behind him. “You. You’re.” 

_Hard_ , he doesn’t say. 

“Yes. I showed you before, what you do to me when you behave.” He slides his hand around Sylvain’s stomach, fingers making short work of the buttons on his pants. “Mm. I like it as much as you like behaving, it seems.” 

“Not trying to argue here, but it’s been a week,” Sylvain says, in a shaken, caught voice. “It’s kinda that, too. And you touching me. More than, uh, sparring and going to the library.” 

“But you did that to be good for me, and now you see what happens when I’m pleased with you, so you’ll keep doing it,” Seteth says, and settles against him, taking Sylvain’s cock in hand. “When would you have asked for permission? Tell me.” 

Sylvain’s hips are already moving, seeking more friction. Seteth gives his neck a brief squeeze. “Take what I give you and answer my question.” 

Sylvain moans. “Fuck, I -- the morning after I sucked you off, probably. Uh. Every day after that.”

“Pleasure is often sweeter when satisfaction is delayed,” Seteth says, smiling where Sylvain can’t see. He moves his hand slowly, up and down, feeling Sylvain’s cock harden ever more. 

“I’m not going to, um, delay very long if -- it’s -- ah.” Sylvain’s body is shivering. 

“Do you like that?” Seteth asks, amused at how Sylvain seems both aroused and surprised by Seteth’s talk. “My hand on you?” 

“Yes,” Sylvain gasps. His fingers flex and press against the stone wall. “That’s why I’m...I don’t know how long I can. Last.” 

“As long as you like,” Seteth says, and he lets himself rub his own hard cock against Sylvain’s ass. “Remember to ask permission first, yes?” 

“Okay.” Sylvain leans his forehead against the wall. He’s breathing too fast. 

Seteth frowns and tightens his fingers around the back of Sylvain’s neck. “Settle down. Take your pleasure. You earned it. Go on, fuck my hand, yes, that’s it, good.” 

Sylvain’s making these soft, quiet little gasping noises like he’s never had a handjob before, and Seteth knows for a fact that isn’t true. He’s falling apart so beautifully, though. “Ah, you see, now, don’t you? Pleasure without the guilt. When it’s earned, when your dominant has chosen to give it to you because you pleased him...do you see how much better it feels?” 

An earnest, reverently whispered _fuck_ is his only answer. Seteth takes that as a _yes_ and makes his strokes long and slow, twisting over the head of Sylvain’s cock, feeling it grow sticky and wet. “I will teach you this along with everything else, if you just trust me, Sylvain.” 

Sylvain finally lifts his head from the wall, tilts it back just a bit, as if he’s trying to press against Seteth’s hand on the back of his neck. “I -- does that mean you’ll.” 

“Yes?” Seteth asks, amused, when Sylvain stops talking. “Does it mean I’ll, what? Finish your sentences.” 

“I can’t -- it seems like I --” Sylvain moans as Seteth twists his hand. 

“Ask me,” Seteth says, dominance heavy in his voice. “Go on.” 

“That you’ll. You’ll fuck me,” Sylvain says. 

Seteth chuckles. “Yes. If you are a good boy, and follow your lessons, do as I say and obey...then yes. I’ll take you, put you beneath me. Mount you as you require.” 

Sylvain shudders, then gasps out, “Can I -- come --” 

Seteth smiles a bit evilly, leans in and says, “ Say it properly. _May_ I.” 

“May I,” Sylvain groans, hips bucking, and his fingers are trying to curl into the stone wall. “Seteth, _please_ , may I -- come -- please --” 

“Yes, good boy,” Seteth murmurs, and strokes him through his orgasm hard and fast, keeping his mouth next to Sylvain’s ear and his hand tight on the back of his neck. “That’s it, ah, yes, you were so good, waiting for permission, do you see? It’s so much better when you’ve earned it, when you’re allowed, when you follow the rules.” 

All Sylvain does is moan, his hips jerking helplessly as he comes apart for Seteth, right there in his office. 

“Good,” Seteth murmurs, as he strokes Sylvain through it. “Lovely.” He presses his fingers to Sylvain’s mouth and hums in approval when Sylvain licks them clean, still panting hard and trembling a bit. He thinks about how to best bring him down as he helps Sylvain clean up, one hand on the back of Sylvain’s neck as he considers his options. 

All of which go out the window when the door is flung open and a bright, inquisitive young woman barrels in without knocking...stops, stares, and bursts in delighted, amused giggles. “Oh! I’m so sorry, did I interrupt?” 

Seteth only just realizes his hand is still on Sylvain’s neck, and withdraws it so he can cross his arms and say, in a firm voice, “Flayn, what happened to _knocking_.” 

His daughter’s eyes glint with amusement and she puts her face in her hands, giggling. “I was so very excited to tell you about the fish I’ve just seen dear Professor Byleth catch!” 

“Well, you should still knock and wait for me, this is not appropriate behavior and you know it.” 

“Uh-huh,” his daughter says, eyebrows raised. “My _deepest_ apologies, brother mine.” 

“Hey,” Sylvain interrupts, ducking around and smiling in a way that makes Seteth suspicious because it’s a little wild. “It’s fine. Thanks for the homework help, Seteth, I...totally get it now. See you later, bye!” 

Before Seteth can regain control of the situation, Sylvain uses those long legs of his to advantage and dashes out of the door, closing it a little too hard behind him. 

“Flayn,” Seteth says, in a stern tone that does not, and never really has, worked that well on his daughter. “I know very well you have better manners than that.”

“And I know very well that doors have _locks_ , dear brother,” she says, and smiles sweetly at him. “Perhaps next time, you’ll remember to use one!” 

Seteth sighs. 

***

Sylvain finds Dedue in the greenhouse, sitting on a chair next to a patch of pale blue flowers. Dedue’s hair is a little bedraggled, hanging in his eyes rather than gelled up in a severe line, and he has a leatherbound book propped up on a knee. He’s wearing glasses, which... Sylvain knows Dedue pretty well, but he’s never seen him in glasses before.

“Close the door,” Dedue says, without looking up. “You’re letting in the cold.”

Sylvain obeys without question. He’s still drifting a little—not quite under, but pleased and sated, with a jittery sort of restlessness under the surface. It’s what brought him here instead of to his room, or maybe to Seteth’s quarters, begging at the door like an orphan in a tragedy, except full grown and not really orphaned and desperate for Seteth to do more with his cock than press it up against Sylvain’s ass and send him on his way.

“It’s late,” Dedue says, as Sylvain strolls up behind him to look over his shoulder. The book he’s reading isn’t in Fodlan. It’s something else, the letters too varied to make sense, but Dedue seems to have no problem with it. “Almyran history. The church banned it for, hah, sympathizing with the enemy.”

“How so?” Sylvain leans on the back of the chair. Dedue is warm, solid, a relief to find after the aimlessness of the walk here.

“Not sure. They’re not demons who breathe fire, that’s all I can guess.” Dedue turns a page. “They discovered mathematics well before Fodlan, in any case, but Duscur has them beat with the introduction of glassblowing. It seems Faerghus was still in mud huts slaughtering wolves when we were both charting the stars.”

“Yeah, see, that right there is why it’s banned,” Sylvain says. “Can’t go around making us look bad.”

“Not when you obviously don’t send children out to kill wolves anymore,” Dedue says.

Sylvain, who very distinctly remembers his own first solo camping trip in the dead of winter, snorts, and Dedue almost smiles.

“You can kneel next to me if you need it,” Dedue says, at last, and Sylvain lets out a long gust of air. “Who were you with, that they just set you loose after?”

“Flayn interrupted us,” Sylvain says, sitting on the floor next to Dedue’s chair. He doesn’t bother kneeling.

“Ah. That’s awkward; She would ask questions, I suppose. But they didn’t invite you to their room? You’re dropping, anyone can see that.”

“What? No.” Sylvain doesn’t respond when Dedue pats the side of his head. “I’m. Look. I said I was fine and needed to head back, and Flayn was. You know.” Smiling, like she’d stuck a lizard in Seteth’s shoe and was finally seeing her hard work pay off. “He was distracted, so I left.”

Seteth had tried, anyways. He was helping Sylvain down when Flayn came bursting through the door, and Sylvain’s pretty sure he didn’t let go of his neck immediately, even when Flayn gasped and sputtered a laugh into her hands. But that was a conversation Sylvain wasn’t about to navigate, so he just. Just thanked Seteth for the homework help and fled for it. 

Dedue turns a page and lets his arm hang over Sylvain’s shoulder, so Sylvain can lean against him if he has to. He is, Sylvain thinks, a little tearfully, the best friend Sylvain has ever had in his life.

“Don’t say whatever it is you’re about to say,” Dedue says, when Sylvain opens his mouth to tell him. “Dimitri always gets embarrassed when he starts making emotional statements. You’re both repressed nobles. It probably runs in the blood.”

“Hold on, I am not repressed. And I’m only like, Dimitri’s third or fourth cousin,” Sylvain says. Dedue rolls his eyes. “It doesn’t even count.”

“I’ve seen your Faerghan family trees,” Dedue says, and Sylvain laughs despite himself. “So. Seteth. You’ve been sleeping with him.”

“In my deeply repressed fantasies,” Sylvain says, before he can stop himself. He goes red when Dedue glances at him. “Fuck.”

“Is it meant to be a secret?” Dedue’s brow raises. “He isn’t... Hm.” He turns back to his book, and Sylvain nudges him with a shoulder, which is a little like trying to push over a wall.

“What?”

“He’s just. Very orderly,” Dedue says, in the same way he would say, _covered in bees_. “The archbishop’s right hand man. And you’re not exactly the model of a good, goddess-worshiping Faerghan noble.”

“You say that like it’s a good thing,” Sylvain says.

Something dark flashes in Dedue’s eyes, the way it does only when they’re alone, far from the regular patrols of monastery knights and watchful monks. “It’s one of your better qualities.”

“You don’t think I don’t… need it,” Sylvain says, carefully. “Control.”

“Depends who’s doing the controlling,” Dedue says. “And where they’re steering you.”

“He isn’t—“

Dedue looks down at Sylvain, and there’s no hint of the darkness lingering behind his eyes, the bitterness Sylvain can hear when they speak of Faerghus. He almost wishes there were. He gets to his feet, and Dedue leans back, just a little.

“Look,” Sylvain says. “I need to get to bed.”

“Sure.”

“No one’s steering me anywhere,” Sylvain says. Dedue says nothing. “I’m not going to—I’m not _compromising_ myself. What I think.”

“Alright.”

“Fine.”

Sylvain steps out into the cool night air and drags his fingers through his hair for a minute, tugging at the roots. He can still feel the weight of Seteth’s hand on the back of his neck, his breath on his ear, the tight, coil of pleasure building as his hard cock presses against him. Sylvain sighs, turns to go back to Dedue and _explain_ things, sucks in air through his teeth, and strides off for the nobles’ rooms on the second floor.

Felix will get it. He’s always been a tight, jangling mess of issues wrapped up in a veneer of disinterest, and besides, he _knows_ Sylvain. He’s been there through all of it, even the time Milklan led Sylvain into the woods and left him there, and Sylvain ended up in the old Galatea residence, flirting with Ingrid’s grandmother to avoid explaining why he was there in the first place. He’ll gripe and complain, maybe, but he won’t go around throwing out unfounded accusations just because Seteth got Sylvain off and _someone_ had to interrupt.

Sylvain opens Felix’s door without knocking, as always, and stands there in the doorway with his hand on the frame and his lips parted.

“Yes?” 

Claude von Riegan is sprawled on Felix’s bed, gloriously naked save for a scarf wrapped around one wrist. On the other end of the scarf, which is looped through a large ring in what looks like an industrial collar, is a very naked, very gagged, and _very_ irate Felix.

“Oh,” Sylvain says, as he realizes that yes, Felix is fully seated in Claude’s lap, and that his back is well marked with the lash, red as a blush. “Good for you, Felix.”

Felix grits out something that sounds suspiciously like _fuck you_. 

“I didn’t tell you to stop,” Claude says, and Felix snarls around the gag, rising a little on his powerful thighs. “What is it you want, Sylvain? We’re a little busy, here.”

“I see that,” Sylvain says. The look Felix shoots him is positively murderous. “Well. That’s. Good job.”

“Thanks.” Claude’s voice is more than a little amused. “We try.”

“How long, exactly—“

“Fngh _fff!_ ” Felix says, through the leather in his mouth. Claude smiles.

“Right,” Sylvain says. “I mean. I guess it makes sense—You’re both dukes. Eventually.”

Claude covers his face with both hands. Felix flips Sylvain off.

Sylvain slams the door shut.

Huh.

He heads back into his room, where his cat, who usually likes to sit on his face while he sleeps and has a tendency to drape all over him, avoids his pathetic attempts for attention. His cat ends up lying on his back at the window, paws up, the sharp points of his claws just peeking out through his soft fur.

“I only feed you and keep you alive,” Sylvain says. Roll’s tail swishes.

Fine. That’s fine. Sylvain sighs and flops back onto his bed, staring at the ceiling. Seteth isn’t guiding him anywhere. Well, maybe to passing his classes, sure. The mandatory church choir sessions might be suspect, but it’s not like he has to listen to the sermons. The only thing that really stands out is the report on the spear, tracing back the Gautiers unfortunate enough to wield it all the way back to the first.

Right at the bottom of the list, just above his own name, is Miklan.

It doesn’t matter that he didn’t have a crest. He still wielded it. So did his great-great aunt, who died of a _mysterious illness_ after she took the spear to defend the Sreng/Fodlan border. Also crestless. And his four times great grandfather, who destroyed what used to be a barn in what the official lists say was a training accident.

Just to be sure, Sylvain brought down a copy of the book of Fodlan crests a few days ago, which has the birth and death of every member of the noble families who can be traced down to the ten elites. He pulls it out now, and thumbs the pages to the section detailing the Gautiers.

Few of them survived to die of natural causes. Most of them died on the battlefield, like the Gonerils, but as he flips through the pages, he finds himself lingering on the names of lesser nobles in his family line, the ones without crests. He skims through notes of illness, accidents, disappearances. People who were stricken from the family and cast out on their own, without an ending on the official lists. 

No one, it seems, likes to die peacefully in the Gautier house.

He doubts this is what Seteth wants. Seteth probably already knows most of this. He _probably_ just wants Sylvain to take some interest in his family legacy. To be a good son of Gautier.

He thinks of Dedue sitting in the greenhouse, watching him, and shoves the book onto the floor. It’s where it belongs, really. If Sreng weren’t a threat, Sylvain wouldn’t even be here. He wouldn’t even be a _Gautier_. He’d be like the professor, maybe, a mercenary. Or a. Fuck. Someone who. Maybe he could be.

It strikes him, then, that Sylvain doesn’t really know what else he _can_ do, other than inherit his title and go find a glorious death on the border. Leave behind some kids with crests, kids who barely know him, who resent him, who know he never wanted them in the first place.

This… thing with Seteth. It’s nice, but Seteth knows Sylvain’s going to have to fuck off to Sreng eventually. It’s not like Sylvain can just take his collar and live in his rooms in the monastery for the rest of his life. Even Felix won’t get that, with Claude. They have duchys to get back to. They’re all deluding themselves. Buying time before whatever pleasure they’ve found comes back around to hurt them.

“Oh, now you give a shit,” he tells his cat, miserably, as Tuna Roll wobbles gracelessly towards him. He starts licking the salt off his face, and Sylvain bursts out a horrible laugh, low and choking. Of course.

“You ungrateful ass,” he says, and closes his eyes as his horrible cat steps over him, curling up in a tight, gelatinous ball at his shoulder. “At least your ulterior motives are obvious.”


End file.
